


Bone Deep

by Sorrel



Series: Anatomy [1]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ensemble - Freeform, Multi, long story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-26
Updated: 2009-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-03 19:49:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 49,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sorrel/pseuds/Sorrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You know how they say you can pick your friends, and you can pick your nose, but you can't pick your family?  Well, that's crap."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a post-season-one AU, written for the Heroes Big Boom challenge. At present it is the longest completed work I have ever done. It's also not my usual style, as the pairings are background and it's an ensemble work. I lived and breathed this story for months, and I could not be more proud of it.
> 
> The gorgeous art for this story is [here](http://dhfreak.livejournal.com/62597.html).

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[anatomy series](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/anatomy+series), [big boom](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/big+boom), [fic](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/fic), [heroes](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/heroes), [het](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/het), [peter/claire](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/peter/claire), [peter/claude](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/peter/claude), [slash](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/slash)  
  
---|---  
  
_Change is inevitable. It is the most fundamental aspect of evolution. The world changes, and those that change with it are the ones who are able to survive._

That's what life is all about, in the grand scheme of things. Survival. It's a biological imperative of almost every species, written into the deepest parts of the brain. Survival is all-important. Family ties, friendships, useless social constructions made by humans to prove that they are superior- all fall by the wayside when it comes down to survival.

Sometimes, you have to lose everything before you are ready to change. And sometimes, the changes you make aren't for the better.

~*~

CLAIRE BENNET- ODESSA, TEXAS

 

She kept coming back to the bridge.

It wasn't like she jumped off it, or anything. (Well, except for that one time, which was just curiosity. Testing her limits, and everything. She'd eaten eight of her daddy's pancakes afterwards, and he'd watched her with a knowing eye, but he hadn't said anything. He did that a lot these days.) She wasn't self-destructive, or whatever buzzword label a shrink would try and slap on her. She wasn't trying to hurt herself, to try and chase the high that came from the rush of pain before the wound healed itself. Her body didn't interpret pain quite like anyone else's, she'd discovered; that's how she could do what she did without going insane.

Anyway, that wasn't why she came back to the bridge. She came back here because that's where it felt like everything started- she'd watched her dad get shot on this bridge, take a bullet and lose his memories for _her,_ and the Haitian had driven her off to a new life and a woman that had turned out to be more dangerous than any of Dad's enemies. They'd only wanted to play with her insides, maybe her brain if she was unlucky. Angela Petrelli had been playing with millions of lives, for reasons she still didn't understand.

Talk about playing for keeps.

She came back to this bridge because she was finally realizing that it didn't matter what kind of powers you had, you could never really turn back the clock. Not even Hiro Nakamura, wherever he was now. He could travel in time, but he couldn't make everything go back to the way it was before. You were always going to know what happened. It was always going to change you.

"Hey."

She twisted around, shielding her eyes against the sun, and smiled up at her Dad. "Hey."

He crossed the road (silently, God, how had she never noticed before how quietly he moved? Normal men didn't walk like that) and sat down next to her, his longer legs dangling off the edge a foot away from hers. "You want to talk about it?"

"Not really," she said. It wasn't like she needed to say anything, anyway. He knew exactly what was on her mind.

"You got another letter from New York today," her Dad said, head tipped back, addressing the sky. He wasn't looking at her.

"Congressional postmark?" she said bitterly. Wordlessly, he offered the letter. "Toss it out."

"Still don't want to hear what he has to say?"

She didn't know why he was encouraging her. It wasn't like he liked Nathan Petrelli any more than she did. He'd tried to take her away. Yeah, when the chips were down he saved the day, sort of, but he didn't have to. She'd had it under control. If he hadn't stepped between them she would have shot Peter and he would have been fine, when she got the bullet out, anyway, and then he wouldn't be-

"You know how they say you can pick your friends, and you can pick your nose, but you can't pick your family?"

He looked like he was trying to suppress a smile. "Yeah?"

She grabbed the letter, ripped it in half, and tossed it off the bridge. "That's crap."

 

NIKI SANDERS- NEW YORK CITY

 

"Micah! C'mon, buddy, it's time for school!"

Micah stuck his head out from his room, scowling. "How come you never yell at Molly?"

She restrained a sigh from sheer force of will. They had this conversation every. single. morning. "Because Molly is always awake, dressed, and eating breakfast while you're still dragging your butt out of bed, mister. If you got up on your own, then I wouldn't have to yell, _capisce?_" She reached out and rubbed one hand over his curly hair. "Now get your stuff and come into the kitchen. I've got French toast."

"Alright!" he said, his good mood restored by the promise of his favorite breakfast. Just like magic, she thought wryly. And who said parenting was boring?

Molly was, of course, already seated at the kitchen table, making her way unhurriedly through a plate of French toast. Her backpack was sitting next to the door, the girlish pink making an odd contrast next to Micah's no-nonsense black one. Niki was still getting used to the sight of it every morning, though she'd long ago settled to the sight of Molly at the breakfast table. Just another one of those odd quirks, she thought. It'd pass eventually.

"Is Micah up yet?" Molly asked, pausing in her steady progress through breakfast to give Niki an oddly solemn look. Molly was such a bright and energetic child normally that Niki sometimes forgot what she'd been through. It only showed at the odd moment, like now, and only then if you were looking closely.

"Yeah, sweetie, he's just getting his stuff. He'll be in in a minute."

"Good," Molly said. "If he doesn't hurry, he won't have time for breakfast."

Niki had this conversation every morning, too. Apparently her children were unaware that she was able to read a clock. "He'll make it."

D.L. wandered into the room, looking pissed off at the universe. Despite that fact, she still crossed the room and gave him a good-morning kiss. His expression brightened immediately, and she smiled back. She didn't think she'd ever got tired of the way he responded to her.

Unfortunately, the scowl came back immediately as he caught sight of the backpacks by the door. "The car's still in the shop."

"What?"

"I said-"

"No, I heard you. It's just that it was supposed to be fixed yesterday."

"Yeah, well, tell that to the shop." Disgusted, he stomped across the kitchen to pour himself a glass of orange juice. Molly watched him like he was some sort of exotic animal in a zoo- dangerous in theory but safely behind bars. "They say it can't be done before tomorrow, at the earliest."

"Oh, for-" She stopped herself from kicking the wall, and instead contented herself with just a little fist-clenching. D.L. had already patched three holes in the living room. She wasn't going to start with the kitchen, too. "I don't suppose any of your friends would be willing to lend us a ride to school?" He'd gotten a job working security on the local college campus, (an opportunity that had Nathan's fingerprints all over it, since both their records were less than stellar) and he'd quickly charmed over most of the other men (and women) on staff.

He shook his head. "Not a chance. I just got off the phone with Dave- his daughter's sick, so he's staying home to keep an eye on her."

"Perfect, just perfect," she said. Micah came skidding in, one shoelace only half-tied. "Micah, sweetie, tie your shoe before you eat," she reminded him absent-mindedly, her mind still focused on the problem at hand. "I don't suppose that Mohinder-"

"Buried in lab work," D.L. said. "Again."

Molly did look up from her breakfast at this, her little face darkening with concern. Niki wanted to slap Mohinder, and not for the first time. Their Doctor Suresh was affectionate, protective, charming, and firm with Molly- all the hallmarks of a good parent. Except for the part where he'd get stuck in his own little scientific world and completely forget about the real one and the little girl that was waiting for him to come by and visit.

Micah climbed into the chair next to her, plate balanced precariously on one hand. Niki watched carefully, ready to jump forward if his grip loosened, but the plate made it to the table without incident. He really was a lot more graceful than she gave him credit for. Kind of like his dad.

"You tried his cell-"

"A couple times already," D.L. said. "Whatever he's doing, he's gone till someone sends his ass home."

"Great." Then she spotted the car pulling up in front of the house. "Or maybe we can see if our friendly local politician is up for emergency ride-giving."

D.L. glanced out the window, his frown getting blacker at the sight of Nathan Petrelli getting out of his sleek sports car. "Damn it, Niki, you know how I feel about that guy," he said. "It's not natural, the way he comes around here all the time."

Nathan had his reasons, not that D.L. would be any happier if he knew what they were. "Relax, D. His kids go to the same school- it's not like it's that far out of the way."

"Doesn't he have servants to do the driving for him?"

"Yes, but he said he likes driving his kids in the morning, because it's the one time of the day that he's got them all to himself." Which wasn't the only reason he liked a chance to talk to Molly alone, not that D.L. needed to know that. "Which you'd know if you listened once in a while, instead of standing around glaring. He got us started over here, made sure the kids are going to a good school. You could be a little nicer."

"Yeah, I guess." He didn't look any happier about it, though, and truthfully, she didn't blame him. Nathan didn't have to come by and visit as often as he did just to talk to Molly, who'd call him in a heartbeat if she thought she'd found Peter. Not to mention the potential damage to his budding career. The few days he'd gone missing, only a day after his triumphant landslide victory (something she had her _son_ to thank for, apparently; that shape shifting bitch had a lot to answer for, if anyone could find her) had been bad enough, but if they caught wind of this little quirk, they'd have a field day.

That didn't stop her from answering the door when he knocked, though. She reasons of her own.

 

NATHAN PETRELLI- PETRELLI MANSION, NEW YORK CITY

 

_Dear Claire-_

His mother was there when he got home, sitting on the couch with Heidi, looking smug and secretive. By itself, that would have been bad enough, but Heidi was wearing the same expression.

And his day had been going so well.

_I know you don't want to hear from me. The resounding silence from your end of the country has been answer enough. But I'm going to keep writing anyway. Eventually, if I can find him, I hope that you will forgive me. Or at least think about it._

He thought about just walking past, ignoring them and the problem they presented completely, but despite the extreme temptation the idea presented he couldn't quite go through with it. Heidi was still his wife, and he still loved her. Even if, lately, she hadn't really been herself.

Then again, he didn't really have room to talk on that score.

"Nathan," his mother purred, looking far too pleased with herself for his peace of mind. His heart sank at her next words. "We were just talking about you."

"Nothing bad, I hope?" he said lightly, bending down to kiss Heidi on the cheek. "If you want, I can go up and let you two gossip in peace."

"All good things," Heidi assured him. "You've been doing such a wonderful job so far, Nathan. Your mother agrees with me."

"Does she now," Nathan said, shooting a look at his mother. She just smiled back, enigmatically. "Well, I've only had office for three months. It's a bit too soon to be casting accolades my way, isn't it?" _Especially since I wouldn't have won that election without Linderman's interference. And there's no doubt in my mind that my mother knows it._

"It's never too soon," Heidi said with a smile.

"Well, time will tell, I guess," Nathan said, and rested one hand on her shoulder. "I think I'm going to go up and check on the boys. They in bed yet?"

"No, Annie's giving them their baths," Heidi said.

"Well, a little soapy water never hurt any politician," he joked, and started towards the doorway. His mother's voice halted him in his tracks.

"Nathan?"

He didn't turn around, not all the way. Just enough to see that Angela and Heidi were both looking at him with the same dangerous smile- eerily alike with their coloring and clothes. Heidi could be her daughter, instead of her daughter-in-law. "Yes, Mom?"

"Maybe you could have breakfast with us tomorrow, instead of going into work early."

"Maybe," he said, and left the room.

_There's a girl here- you probably saw her, there at the end. Molly. She's a Sector, which means that she can find things. Or people. Especially people, actually. I see a lot of her these days, and I keep hoping that she can find Peter. She hasn't been able to yet, but I know he's alive, Claire. I don't know how he's blocking Molly, or why he won't come home, but he's out there somewhere, doing his own thing as usual, without remembering to think about the rest of us. He'll come back eventually, though. Peter always does._

His steps were unusually heavy as he climbed the front staircase. It had been a long enough day if you were just counting the politics, and not his early-morning visit to the Sanders household. (Technically Sanders-Hawkins, but he found it easier to think of it as Niki's domain, with the scowling D.L. as an interloper. Never mind that the man was her husband.) He didn't really have the extra time that it took to make it out to their little house and back, just to drive Molly and Micah to school, but what was one more favor against all the others that had piled up? He'd owe them all of that and more if only Molly could find his brother.

He could still remember the solemn look on her little face as her hand wavered over the map in her lap, sitting in the backseat of his car this morning. It was a world map; at this point, he'd settle for a country, even a continental region, anyplace where he could start looking. But her hand had stayed steady on the pin as it swept over the open book, and when she'd opened her eyes she'd frowned at him and shaken her head, just like she'd done all the other times that he'd asked.

He didn't care. He'd keep asking. He'd do anything to find Peter, to even know that he was okay, even if he could see him. See him and touch him and know that he was okay- and shake him until his perfect, orthodontia-white teeth rattled right out of his head, the little bastard.

_I know that you're probably going to tear this up just like I'm guessing you tore up all the others, but I'm still going to keep writing. You're my daughter, even if you don't want to acknowledge that right now. I have to keep trying. Just in case._

 

MOHINDER SURESH- HELIX LABORATORIES, NEW YORK CITY

 

"Do you even know what time it is?"

Mohinder blinked as he looked up from the computer screen. "I'm sorry?"

Officer Parkman smirked at him as he tapped the face of the clock that someone had pointedly placed in plain sight in front of his workstation. Not that it had helped. "It's way past your bedtime."

Almost three in the morning. Lord, Molly was going to kill him. After Niki took him apart for making everyone worry, again. "No, I hadn't realized."

"Well, it's time to pack up. Get at least a little sleep before you go see the rugrat tomorrow."

"Molly's in school tomor-"

"It's Friday night."

Mohinder deflated. "Oh."

Matt laughed good-naturedly and clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it. You genius types live in a different world or you wouldn't be geniuses, right? Molly understands that."

Maybe, but Niki didn't. And he'd seen perfectly well what Niki could do to someone who pissed her off- and that was _before_ she'd adopted Molly. Though watching her slam that parking meter into Sylar's face had been sweet, indeed. "I suppose," was all he said. "Thank you for stopping by, though. You're right, I probably do need to go home for a time."

"If you can't remember what day it is? Yeah, I'd say so." Matt gave him that slightly-flat smile that always reminded Mohinder that this wasn't just any police officer, this was a man who'd faced down Sylar (though almost fatally), and a man who could, in fact, read minds. Just in case, Mohinder kept his thoughts as blank as possible.

Matt's expression didn't change. "Anyway, since you're done for the night, why don't I walk you down," he suggested. "Make sure you don't make a run back for your lab."

Mohinder made a face at him as he shut down the computer and reached for his coat. "I think I can avoid the temptation."

"Yeah, well, I'm not taking any chances," he said. "Niki and D.L. have their thing on Sunday, remember? Just think how much trouble I'll be in if I let you molder away up here." Matt's grin was irrepressibly boyish.

"Oh, good Lord," he groaned. "The dinner."

"You forgot about that, too, didn't you?"

"I'm sure I would have remembered in time," Mohinder protested.

"Or not," Matt replied, holding the door for him on the way out. "You need an assistant, or something. Someone who can get you out when you start going cross-eyed from staring at that screen."

"I thought that's what I had you for," he said, impossibly dry.

"Yeah, well, maybe you should go for something younger and blonder."

"Don't let Niki hear you say that."

"Or Congressman Petrelli," Matt said. "He's the one funding this thing, after all."

Mohinder thought of Nathan Petrelli, and the way he looked around Niki, which was a very different look than he'd given to his wife, the one time Mohinder had been introduced to her. "Actually, I think he might be the first one to agree with you," he mused, and Matt threw his head back and laughed.

 

MICHAEL DUPONT- NEW YORK CITY

 

When Michael dreamed, he dreamed someone else's life.

Some nights he dreamed in shades of red. Bright candy-apple red, like blood when it was fresh, welling out of the wound, and then slowly darkening as it dripped and pooled and congealed. His hands were always the brighter red, he knew. The sky was always the darker, making him think vaguely of sin and damnation and apocalypse, though Michael wasn't a believer.

Somebody else was.

The dreams always ended with the man. He looked like Michael, only his eyes were determined and fierce (Was he the believer? What did he believe in so strongly, to make him look like that?) and the light around his hands wasn't blood-bright; it was blue, like September skies and stormy seas. It was the only thing that was different, the one thing that was unlike all the others and the only relief from the red, and Michael always remembered him when he woke up, even when the other parts of the dream faded from memory. If asked, he could draw the planes of the man's face in exacting detail, the curl of his hair and the set of his shoulders, a photo impression in black and white. (He didn't like colors all that much, anymore.)

Sometimes he didn't have the red dream. Sometimes, he fell asleep and it was like opening his eyes in someone else's body. He'd walk around, an unwilling passenger, and smile at people he didn't know, and speak in a voice not his own. He hated those dreams, until he looked down, and he saw that his hands were blue. He always woke up smiling from those dreams.

Sometimes, the two dreams became one and the same.

Those nights, he woke up screaming.

 

CLAIRE BENNET- ODESSA, TEXAS

 

Her dad wasn't there when she got home, but her mom was, making biscuits in the kitchen while Mr. Muggles danced around her feet, begging for scraps or just attention. Her mom smiled when she came in, so she made an effort to smile back. Her mom had been pretty accepting about the whole, freakish ability to heal herself, thing, and anyway it wasn't her mom's fault that she was having a bad day.

Besides- biscuits.

Correctly interpreting her expression, her mother winked as she slid one batch out of the oven. "Just in time, darlin'," she said. "Careful now, they're still mighty hot."

Claire had the best mom ever. Biscuits, _and_ she still conveniently "forgot" that Claire wouldn't be bothered by picking up the pan barehanded, much less the biscuits.

"I'm always careful," she lied cheerfully, and took three biscuits back up to her room with her. Well, her mom was making another batch. And what with breaking her arm earlier, she was pretty hungry.

She was just starting on her math homework and munching through her last biscuit when she heard something smack against the window. When she went over and stuck her head outside to see what was going on, she got hit in the forehead with a flying rock.

"Nice aim, genius," she shouted down at Zach as she wiped the blood off her forehead. He had the good grace to look sheepish. "What are you doing down there anyway, you maniac? The phone was invented for a reason."

"Yeah, but that's boring," he said with a grin, and she sighed before going down to let him in.

"Ooh, biscuits," he said when he saw the half-eaten one still in her hand, and headed straight for the kitchen. Claire's mom just laughed and filled up a plate for them. "Growing boys need their food," she said, while Zach grinned like a choirboy and made her mom glow with her Proud Parent Look ™. Parents loved Zach; it was a totally unfair advantage.

"Hey, what about me?" Claire said, ignoring the fact that she'd had three already.

"You do any more growing and your dad's gonna get a complex 'bout his height," her mom said. "And nobody wants to see that."

Zach faked an elaborate shudder, and Claire glared at him, glad that her mom's back was turned and she couldn't see.

"C'mon, you," she told him, snagging his sleeve with two fingers. "Up. You can help me with my math homework."

"Yes, ma'am," he said with a grin.

"And bring the biscuits!"

~*~

Half an hour later, the biscuits were gone and the dreaded algebra beast was whipped into submission, and Claire figured it was safe enough to broach the topic of what he was _really_ doing here. "Okay, so what's up with you?"

"What? Nothing's up." He could keep a secret like nobody's business, and she had reason to know, but about some things? He really just, couldn't lie. At all. At least not to her.

"Don't even try it, buster. You didn't come over for mom's biscuits."

"A guy can't just stop by to visit a friend?" he tried, but wilted when she pinned him down with a Look. (She'd learned it from her mom. To this date, she couldn't think of a single time it hadn't worked. Well, except for the one time she'd been foolish enough to try it on her dad.)

"Normally? Yes. With that look on your face? No. C'mon, spill."

"Hey, why don't we talk about your great day instead?" he suggested brightly. "How's school out in the boondocks?"

"Oh please, like Odessa High is _such_ a metropolis," she laughed. "It's nice," she added noncommittally. "Peaceful."

It was hell. Their home had been completely wiped out- but of course the Company had set up another one, almost identical, when it was still trying to trap her Dad into telling them where she was. She couldn't live there anymore, and neither could her Dad- and her mom and Lyle had gone along with it. They'd moved out into the country, away from people and prying eyes and dangerous questions, and her family had paid extra to send her to a different school, one where nobody knew her or what a freak she was. Sure, a couple of them had heard that she'd been elected Homecoming Queen, or that she'd been attacked on Homecoming Night, and a few of them even knew that she was the same Claire Bennet whose house had blown up, but for the most part they were farmer's kids, or rebels who'd been kicked out of other schools, and they didn't much care what she got up to as long as she left them alone.

She didn't know _anyone_ there, and sort of thought that she wasn't likely to start making friends anytime soon. It wasn't that she didn't _want_ to, it was just- how could she get closer to someone like that again, knowing that she had this deep dark secret that she could never tell? It sort of put a damper on the whole process.

So she stuck to herself, studied hard, and spent a whole lot of time with her family and Zach. He biked out almost every day, now. Her mom had started setting an extra place at the table without thinking about it, and even Lyle had gotten to the place where he could admit that Zach was "kind of cool, for a weirdo." She knew he had other friends- he'd proven his networking skills when he got her elected for Homecoming- and she wondered what they thought about him never being around. She'd never quite gotten the courage to ask, childishly afraid that if she said it out loud, he'd stop coming around so much, and she'd be on her own again.

"So now it's your turn," she said, turning the internal hamster wheel _off_ and instead focusing a smile towards Zach that she knew for a fact was nauseatingly cheerful. "What's got you acting all weird? It's a not a boy or something is it?" Zach's face did something complicated, and her eyes went wide in response. "Ohmigod it _is_ a boy, isn't it? Tell me everything, right now," she ordered, slapping him on the arm. He rubbed it, frowning at her.

"Jesus, your brain is scary sometimes," he said, shoving her back lightly. "It's not a boy. Or, well, it is, but it's not like that. I think I found someone else with a power."

"You _what?"_ she said. This was so far from anywhere she'd expected this conversation to go that she had to stop and burn a little mental rubber before she could get the metaphorical car turned around and going the right direction. "Are you serious? What can he do?"

"Uh, he grows plants, I think," Zach said.

"You _think?_ You didn't ask him?"

"Hell, no, I didn't ask him. What was I supposed to say? 'Hey, I'm Zach and I know a girl that can jump off a building and walk away!" He'd totally think I was nuts, or one of those government guys like your Dad was. It'd go over real well."

She ignored the bit about her dad and said, "So if he didn't tell you, how do you know what he does?"

"He's growing pot in his basement," Zach said matter-of-factly.

She didn't bother to hold back the snort of derision. "Guess what, Einstein: half the county is growing pot in their basement. Welcome to small town America."

"No, I know, but you need all kinds of lights and stuff to get the right conditions, right? He just had a whole patch of the stuff, totally in the dark, and I've never seen 'em grow that big."

"Right," she said, but this time her tone was a little more thoughtful. "We'll get to what you were doing in the guy's house looking at his pot plants later-" Zach winced. "- but it sounds like you might- _might,_ mind you- have something there."

"Hah, knew it," Zach said. "So you're gonna come see him with me tomorrow, right? You can do that thing with the knife that I still can't watch, so he knows that we're not some kinda freaks."

"Uh, Zach?" she said. "I hate to break it to you, but…"

He grinned back at her. "Well, okay, yeah. So he knows that we're not out to get him or something, anyway."

"Sounds like a plan."

He hesitated a moment, then said, "You gonna tell your Dad?"

"Well," she said. "Maybe afterwards. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, right?" Plus she didn't want to get her Dad involved with any other kids with powers, not just yet. It wasn't that she didn't trust him or anything, but… Yeah. He'd worked for the Company a long time, and he kept making these business trips even though he didn't actually have a job anymore, and she honestly didn't know what he was doing- was maybe a little afraid to ask. After all, there were plenty of people with powers in the world, but she was the only one in the world who was his daughter. His circle of people he cared about was pretty damn small, and she wasn't sure what the rules were for the people who were outside that circle.

"Yeah, I guess," he said. He leaned a little closer to her, she noticed, as if he could protect her from her Dad's parental wrath. It was sweet, she thought. Surprisingly so, even after everything- him exploring her powers with her, him losing his memory, her telling him again because it didn't feel right to do it without him, going to New York and coming home and needing somebody because she felt like inside she was one big wound, bleeding as if from the loss of an arm, or a leg. She'd mourned Peter that much. She'd needed someone to confide in, to be rock-steady and funny and commonsense. In short, she'd needed Zach, and he'd been there in spades.

Maybe it shouldn't surprise her that he was a little overprotective, she thought. He was about as un-macho as they came, but he was still a guy, and she'd given him plenty of reason to think that she needed someone to step in for her. He probably wasn't too far wrong, at least normally. The last person she needed protection from, though, was her Dad. At least she'd finally learned that, for sure and for certain.

"So," she said brightly, turning and looking cute at him from under her eyelashes. He tensed, knowing something bad was about to follow. "Is he cute?"

To her utter, utter delight, he blushed.

 

MICAH SANDERS- COLDWOOD ACADEMY, NEW YORK CITY

 

_SAMANTHA48616e61:_ Aren't you supposed to be in class right now?  
_MicahSanders500:_ I've got study hall right now.

Micah glanced up from his computer screen when he heard Molly laughing across the room. He couldn't quite see her- she was ducked down behind her monitor, whispering to whoever was next to her- but he'd know that giggle anywhere. It always made him grin, even when he wasn't with her, sharing the joke.

_SAMANTHA48616e61_: Then why aren't you studying?  
_MicahSanders500_: Because I'm caught up on all my homework and don't have any tests or quizzes due any time soon. Jeez, you're worse than Mom.

_SAMANTHA48616e61_: I'll take that as a compliment.  
_MicahSanders500_: You would.

He didn't normally talk to grownups like that, not unless he was playing around with his dad, but Hana wasn't really your average grownup. She wasn't really a _person_ at all; just terabytes of information spread out over a thousand computers all over the world, and held together with something suspiciously virus-like that tied the whole thing into a shadow-copy of a person. She was the first true AI, self-created and self-replicating. He'd asked a supercomputer to run a tracking program that kept an eye on her, so he knew that she got bigger all the time, scanning and storing information the way she never got to when she was alive. According to her, there wasn't much to regret about losing a human body, and a lot that she'd gained.

Micah didn't understand that, but then again, he had a family, people who'd miss him if he died. Hana didn't have anyone but him, and she didn't meet him till after she was dead. He didn't understand some of the things she talked about, betrayal and vengeance and all that stuff, but he did understand about losing people, because he almost lost his dad. He'd cried for like a week after that, when he was alone and nobody could make fun, and that was when his dad was just in the hospital for a gunshot wound (GSW, the medical file said, would have been fatal if it had been an inch to the left. Micah had spent a lot of time making friends with the hospital computers to get ahold of that), alive and not buried in a box in the ground, like Hana's family.

But it wasn't just about how much he'd miss people. It was how much they'd miss him, too. Who'd make pancakes with Mom on Sunday mornings? Who'd play football with Dad? Who'd look out for Molly if he was stuck in a computer?

_SAMANTHA48616e61_: Watch your tongue, mister.  
_MicahSanders500_: Wouldn't it be watching my fingers? Since I'm typing, not talking.  
_SAMANTHA48616e61_: You're a terror.  
_SAMANTHA48616e61_: I bet you give your mom gray hairs, don't you?  
_MicahSanders500_: Well, she *says* she's a natural blonde.  
_SAMANTHA48616e61_: And you're rude, too.

Thinking of Molly, he once again peeked over the edge of the monitor- just to check up on her. She was laughing, she was probably okay, but he had to make sure. Dad had told him to look out for her, not that he needed to be told. He'd always look out for Molly.

It wasn't hard to figure out why she was giggling so hard- Simon Petrelli was doing his impersonation of his Dad on TV, complete with the fake smile. Molly thought it was funny, but Micah thought it was kinda weird. Mr. Petrelli came around a lot, drove them to school sometimes, but he wasn't like Dad. He didn't know how to talk to kids. He tried, but it was always… well, weird. They knew Simon because his dad had gotten him and Molly into the same class- making sure that they had "friends" in place, which was the kind of dumb thing only a parent would do- but they actually liked Simon, who wasn't as stuck-up as his dad seemed sometimes. And Simon made fun of his dad like, all the time, which Micah thought was a little weird. Then again, if he had Mr. Petrelli as his Dad, he'd probably make fun of him too.

_SAMANTHA48616e61_: Micah

Maybe he could go over there, he thought. He'd gotten here late and the only station available had been all the way over here on the wrong side of the room, but some people had left now, and there were seats over there where they were. He could go over there, get in on the joke. He knew Simon wouldn't mind. They had an understanding.

_SAMANTHA48616e61_: Micah

Micah knew everyone thought he was just a kid, but he totally wasn't. And Simon was a little weird sometimes, and he didn't know anything about computers _at all,_ which Micah totally didn't understand, but he was older than anyone gave him credit for, too. His parents were gone all the time and his brother had his own friends and so Simon had learned how to have fun on his own, just like Micah. So they understood each other, and they both took care of Molly. It worked out, since Micah wasn't in all of her classes, and he wasn't always there to keep an eye on her. She was littler than them, and she got scared sometimes, and people picked on her. Simon watched out for her too, and for reasons Micah hadn't been here long enough to know, nobody messed with him. So it was okay.

_SAMANTHA48616e61_: Micah  
_SAMANTHA48616e61_: Micah  
_SAMANTHA48616e61_: MICAH!

Finally glancing back at the screen, he frowned at the blinking row of messages.

_MicahSanders500_: What?  
_SAMANTHA48616e61_: There's a tracking program following you.

Probably the supercomputer he'd set to following her. It usually didn't hang around when he was talking to her, but it got bored sometimes. Micah didn't blame it. He'd told it that it could leave her alone if it wanted, but it told him it was fine, it could always calculate pi if things got too slow. It must have gotten curious, though, if it was lurking this close.

_MicahSanders500_: It's just this supercomputer I know. It's saying hi.  
_SAMANTHA48616e61_: Are you sure?

Well, yeah, he was sure. Just in case, he let his hands flatten out along the keyboard, feeling his way through the cord and into the hard drive, and from there into the network. The massive, lurking, multicolored _thing_ that was Hana was off to his left, obscuring anything that might be hiding around her, but he took her word for it and looked around anyway. And there it was, off to his right, just on the edges of his standard perimeter of awareness. He stretched out, trying to say hello, but the program shied away, staying just out of recognition range.

It was odd, but it felt like the program he knew, as far as he could tell. It was probably just staying back so Hana wouldn't notice that it was following _her,_ not him. He gave it a little mental nod of approval, and pulled back out of the network.

_MicahSanders500_: Yeah, it's fine.

Across the room, Molly giggled again. He craned his neck, but this time he couldn't see what was going on, and he was curious.

_MicahSanders500_: Hey, I'm gonna go hang out with Molly and Simon. Talk to you later?  
_SAMANTHA48616e61_: I'm not going anywhere.  
_SAMANTHA48616e61_: Till next time.

Micah signed off the computer with a thought, and then grabbed his backpack and headed over to join the fun.

 

NOAH BENNET- ODESSA, TEXAS

 

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been mad enough, or scared enough, to yell for thirty minutes straight.

Claire had always been the good girl, the one who got decent grades and didn't have delinquent boyfriends or get into trouble. Lyle had been the problem child, the one who never did what he was told, barely pulled C's, and was caught stealing a candy bar, of all godforsaken things. Claire was Daddy's girl, and Lyle, maybe because he knew that, didn't want anything to do with his parents at all, most days.

He'd always thought that if he ever _would_ lose his temper like this again, it would be because of Lyle. He'd even factored in Claire's… unusual talents, but what he'd forgotten was her determined and absolute stubbornness.

That, he was sure, she got from her biological parents. He wasn't stubborn. He was merely patient.

And this newest stunt of hers… _Not_ something she could have gotten from him, either by genetics or observation. He _never_ would have done something so incurably _stupid_ as to go and confront someone like her without insurance, backup (oh, that's right, she had _Zach_ with her) or even a plan. It was one of the dumbest things he'd ever heard of, and he'd spent years working with a partner who picked pockets for the hell of it on every job they ever did.

The yelling was over, since he'd finally gotten control of himself and sent her to her room. She'd gone without any protest, which meant that he'd probably scared her almost as much as she'd scared him. Good.

But of course, the remorse eventually set in and he remembered that she was his daughter, she'd been through a lot, she was just doing what she thought was right the best way she knew how, which she _had_ learned from him. So after he'd had some time to calm down, he went upstairs to see what she was doing.

She was curled up on her bed with a sketchpad in her lap. She didn't look up when he opened the door, so he stood in the doorway for a minute, just watching her. God, she still seemed so young. Just sixteen years old, still his baby girl. Almost seventeen now, though, and she'd seen a hell of a lot more, _done_ a hell of a lot more than most girls five years her senior. She'd made the kind of decisions most adults of any age couldn't handle, and she'd made the _right_ ones with grace and courage. In short, she was a lot older than she seemed in every way that meant something, and that was something that he wasn't sure he was ready to think about just yet.

"I didn't know you could draw," he said.

She looked smoothly up from her work, no jerk of surprise, which meant that she'd known he was there. Most people couldn't stand to be watched like that; it was a technique that had served him well during his years with the Company. But Claire had always been content with him watching her, no matter how much he stared sometimes.

"I've been trying to learn," she said. "I figured a painting saved my life; learning how to do something more than stick figures seemed like a good way to say thanks."

Interesting that she thought of it that way. Mendez had come through for him in the end, though ultimately it was a different dark-haired, handsome young man who'd swooped in to save the day. He thought that it wasn't really "art" or even the painter that she was paying back with this little project, but someone else altogether.

"Are you any good?" he asked.

She shrugged, turning the pad facedown on the bedspread with a wry smile. "Getting better, anyway," she said. "I guess it helps having a vision of the future to guide your hand, huh?"

He just tilted his head and looked at her over the rims of his glasses. "You're talking about Peter," he said, because Isaac was dead before she ever got a chance to meet him, and because there was only one person that Claire was ever really thinking about, and that was Peter. Not for the first time, he wondered just what part of herself she'd left behind on that fateful piece of New York cement, but he was too afraid to ask. She'd tell him, or she wouldn't. He was used to living in suspense when it came to her.

"Yeah," she said. "It was the first power he ever really controlled, did you know that?"

"No, I didn't," he said. "He tell you that?"

"Dad, we ran around New York for two days. What, you think we didn't talk at _all_ the whole time?"

He hadn't thought about it at all, really. He'd had other things on his mind. For weeks all he'd been able to think about was saving Claire, protecting Claire, keeping Claire away from the Company. He'd done a lot of bad things to a lot of people who'd done nothing to deserve it except have the wrong genes, and he didn't regret it as much as he should. But he'd be _damned_ if he'd see the same done to Claire. Biology, fate, whatever had sent Peter her way- he'd been willing to help Noah with that goal, and that's all Noah had cared about.

He was starting to think about it now, though. A blind man couldn't have missed the way she was grieving for the man, and other than some kind of hero-worship crush, he honestly had no idea why.

"I suppose not," he said. "The two of you were close, then?"

To his surprise, she just shrugged. "Close as we could be when we didn't really know each other," she said, with a wisdom that shouldn't still surprise him but did. "I mean, I went to New York to find him, and we saved each other's lives and all, but two days is still just two days, and we were mostly talking about our powers, Sylar, him exploding, that sort of thing. He's got a whole life of his own that I don't know anything about." Her fingers knotted in her lap. "I don't even know what kind of ice cream he likes."

She still talked about him in the present tense, absolutely certain that he was still alive. Noah didn't share her faith. He'd never met an Empath before, didn't know the limits of their powers, but he last time he'd seen Peter the man had been having trouble controlling even the one power, let alone any others. He had his doubts about Peter's ability to resurrect, not that he was enough of an idiot to say that to Claire. And for all he knew, she could be right and him wrong. But he didn't think so.

"Well, I don't know about ice cream," he said, deliberately keeping his tone light, "but most people have things they don't tell other people. It's human nature to keep secrets."

"Something you know a lot about," she said.

He froze, then tried to pretend that he hadn't. "I lied to protect you, Claire, you know that." He knew that his voice was uneasy- too uneasy, Christ, he used to know how to lie. Or maybe it wasn't him, maybe it was just that he couldn't lie to _Claire,_ sitting there on her girly pink bed and looking at him with her wide, too-old eyes. By some amazing trick of fate, this amazing creature was his daughter. He couldn't lie to her, not anymore.

"I'm not an idiot, Dad, I can figure out what you used to do for the Company."

Despite himself, he flinched. There was no way that she could possibly know the extent of it, but even her meager understanding of the Company was enough to send chills down his spine when he thought about her, imaging him that deeply involved. It was true, of course. He was one of the best field agents in the continental United States, and he knew it. But his loyalties, once in conflict, were unquestionably with his family.

"I'm done with the Company," he said, steadily enough. "I burned all my bridges trying to protect you."

"Are you sure?" she said.

Christ. "Claire, you can't possibly think-"

"You still take all those business trips, Dad. One a week, like clockwork. And since I know you're not really employed anymore, I've gotta wonder where you've been going."

_Of course._ It explained a lot, now that he thought about it. And, in retrospect, it'd been stupid not to tell her, if only because he should have known she'd come to this sort of conclusion. And do something like-

Realization hitting belatedly, he said, "Is that why you didn't tell me about that boy until after you saw him? You were worried that I'd take him away?"

She turned away from him, her shoulder rising in a defensive half-shrug as she toyed with the edge of the comforter. "It crossed my mind."

He wanted to laugh. Once again, he'd underestimated her and her stubborn ability to ignore the dangers and do exactly what she thought was right. He didn't have any excuse- he should have learned from last time, and anyway, he knew she'd gotten it from him. She sure as hell hadn't gotten it from Nathan Petrelli.

He abandoned the doorway in favor of sitting on the edge of the bed, though he couldn't get her to meet his gaze. "Claire, I'm not still working for the Company," he told her, annoyed and relieved. "I'm taking it apart."

She did look at him, finally, her eyes going wide with shock. "You what?"

"I've been taking out key facilities and data storage hubs," he said. "Encouraging certain employees to take a long vacation, things like that." Some of them hadn't wanted a vacation. Those people were now enjoying a nice long one at the bottom of various rivers. He'd never flinched from the unpleasant parts of his job, not that Claire had to know that.

Of course, there were a few people that had gone missing that he hadn't had a chance to touch. And they weren't the pencil-pushers and higher-ups, not like the ones he was taking out. The others who'd gone missing were all operatives- not like Claude had been, or even the Haitian, but unpartnered Talents, black-ops even in an organization as secret as the Company. Someone else was out there, working off the books, and Noah didn't have the faintest idea who, or even what they were trying to accomplish. But that was a worry for another day.

"We got rid of the tracking system," one of them anyway, and the other was under the care of two of the more dangerous Talents he'd heard of, "but the Company was still intact. I've been trying to change that."

She uncurled a little, something like hope on her face. "So you haven't been chasing down people like me?"

"_No,_" he told her, putting a hand on one cotton-covered shoulder. "If anything, I've been helping them."

"So when I found out about Jake-" she said.

"You should have come to me, yes," he said. "I can help you, Claire, and anyone you can find." He was less sincere than he sounded about the last part, since as far as he was concerned family came first, but he had a feeling that he was supposed to be making amends somehow, and this was as good a way as any. Fitting, if nothing else. "A lot of things could have gone wrong today, you have to understand that. Not everyone can accept their powers as gracefully as you. Some of them are going to be dangerous. And I know you trust Zach, but I really think I'm better backup for this sort of thing." He tried out a smile, tentative. "At least I _hope_ you think I'm a better shot than Zach. I'm gonna be kinda insulted if you don't."

She seemed to come to some sort of decision, and she reached out to hug him. "Oh, Daddy, of course I do," she said. "But you've gotta tell me about stuff like this, okay? I can't make good decisions if I don't know what's going on, you know that."

He looped one arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, smiling a little bit foolishly. "Okay," he agreed, though he knew he wouldn't be able to keep that promise. "Okay. From here on out, we're a team."

"Sounds like a plan to me," she said, and her smile was so brilliant, he didn't regret the lie at all.


	2. Chapter 2

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[anatomy series](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/anatomy+series), [big boom](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/big+boom), [fic](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/fic), [heroes](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/heroes), [het](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/het), [peter/claire](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/peter/claire), [peter/claude](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/peter/claude), [slash](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/slash)  
  
---|---  
  
MOHINDER SURESH- NEW YORK CITY

 

Mohinder stuck his hands in his pockets and looked around the cluttered living room, trying not to feel too acutely out of place.

Family dinners like this were completely outside of his normal realm of experience, as his family hadn't been close enough for this kind of event in years. For the first time in months, he truly felt like a foreigner in a strange land.

Molly was in the adjoining family room, giggling as Simon Petrelli chased her around in circles. Micah was over by the grill with his father, but Mohinder couldn't help but notice the way his eyes followed Molly's laughing form.

There was going to be trouble there, in a few years. They _weren't_ siblings, no matter how much paperwork Nathan Petrelli had pushed through, or how much Niki thought of Molly as her own. As far as the formidable Mrs. Sanders was concerned, Molly had been her daughter from the moment she had held the trembling little girl and kept her safe from the Boogie Man.

Molly, on the other hand, loved Niki, trusted her, even obeyed her well enough, but Mohinder knew that she did not think of Niki as her mother. Her parents were dead, and all the love in the world was not going to change that. She had a new family, albeit a rather odd one, but Micah was her friend, not her brother. And Mohinder knew that Micah, for all that he was still a child, was very aware of that fact.

Some people found the love of their lives at a very early age. Mohinder was one of them- his was just called "science."

Mohinder was just grateful that the whole mess was not going to be his to deal with. He was Molly's… something, honorary uncle perhaps? But she didn't live under his roof, and ultimately there was no real reason that she was his responsibility beyond his own nagging sense of guilt and the oddly intense biological imperative to protect one who shared your blood. It meant that he'd be there for her to the best of his ability, but it would be Niki and DL who would handle the fallout, when it inevitably came.

"They're great kids, aren't they?"

He turned around, a smile coming readily to his face as he saw who was beside him. "Matt. I was beginning to think that you'd abandoned me to go through this on my own."

"After how much effort I put into getting you here? Not a chance." Matt grinned back, comfortably. "Besides, I'm always up for free food. It's totally unfair, you know, that Niki looks like she does, can break a man in half without breaking a nail, _and_ she can cook."

"I'm sure she would be delighted at that description," Mohinder said, but he secretly agreed. Niki had had her share of problems, he could put that much together from the pieces she'd told him and what he'd heard from her son and husband, but she'd come through them mostly intact and in dangerous fighting trim, metaphorically speaking. Molly wasn't the only reason the Congressman kept showing up at the house.

And since Mohinder knew that he was not exactly the most observant of men when it came to other people, he could be sure that if it was something he'd noticed, then D.L. had noticed it as well. Which certainly explained why DL was always glaring at the man, on the rare occasion that Mohinder had seen them together.

"Yeah, well," Matt said, tucking his thumbs through his belt loops. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, the heavy winter coat he'd worn outside folded messily over his arm, and he looked oddly pared-down out of the uniform Mohinder had grown used to seeing him in. It shouldn't be this startling to see him in street clothes, since that was what he'd been wearing the night they'd met, but it was. Dangerously so. "I wasn't planning on telling her."

"Mum's the word," Mohinder assured him absently. His mind had already gone back to the children. "We are very lucky with them," he said. Simon had finally given up the chase, and Molly was taunting him from the safety of Niki's side. "They're the next generation, all of them."

Matt made some noise of surprise. "That's Petrelli's kid," he said. "You're telling me…"

"It's likely, yes. His father can fly, and his uncle was- is- a powerful rarity even among those with the marker." Internally, he winced. If Nathan had heard him referring to Peter in the past tense, he wouldn't be standing here right now.

"So the genetic marker breeds true," Matt said, sounding fascinated. "Always?"

"I've hardly had enough time to even start the necessary studies, but from what we've seen so far, yes," Mohinder said. "Nathan's brother has a power as well as himself, making it likely that it's a recessive genetic trait instead of a dominant one. His illegitimate daughter, by way of another woman with the marker, has powers, and the same is true for Niki, D.L., and Micah. Within a certain amount of reasonable doubt, if two parents have the marker, then their offspring will have it as well."

"So my parents had powers," Matt said. He sounded disbelieving. Everyone always liked to believe that their parents couldn't keep secrets, Mohinder thought. And they were almost always wrong.

And anyway, that supposition was false. He shook his head. "We don't know when, or how, the marker enters a family a line," he said. "At a certain point in its evolution, it could merely function as a carrier, passing down to the next generation but not yet reforming the body's molecular structure to adapt to their ability. It's entirely possible that your parents had no abilities at all, and were entirely unaware of their own genetic uniqueness."

"Now that I can believe," Matt said, and if he sounded bitter, Mohinder didn't know why. He had never met the Parkmans, and judging by Matt's use of the past tense, he would never have the chance. Not that he would have anyway, he told himself. They weren't that kind of friends. "But if I had a kid, would he or she have abilities, too?"

"It depends," Mohinder said, startled. He wasn't sure why- it was a natural extension of the conversation- but perhaps it was the way Matt said it, abrupt and almost… harsh. It was at odds from his usually easy-going demeanor. "As I said, based on limited evidence it seems that if the mother has the marker, your child would as well. I can't say one way or another with any degree of assurance if the mother didn't have the marker. I simply don't have enough evidence, at this point, to predict any potential outcomes." He glanced over, curious. "Why? Are you planning on having kids any time soon?"

"No, I'm not planning on it," he said. "But things don't always happen according to plan." He seemed withdrawn, suddenly, and thoughtful. Mohinder wasn't sure what to say, and the silence between them stretched awkwardly, neither of them quite sure what they were supposed to say next. Niki's yell of, "Food's up, come and get it!" broke the spell, and they both grinned at each other in matching relief before glancing quickly away and going to be social and, more importantly, get dinner.

 

NATHAN PETRELLI- MENDEZ STUDIOS, NEW YORK CITY

 

The problem with being the person who took care of things, Nathan thought bitterly, was that there was pretty much never anyone to take care of you.

It was a self-indulgent line of thinking, but Nathan figured he was about due for a little self-indulgence tonight. He'd spent three months trying to do the right thing for everyone else, and he was damn well tired of it.

He'd sponsored Mohinder, gotten him set up in his own lab space that Nathan had bought using Petrelli family money. He'd helped Niki and D.L. and their children in their move to New York, finding them a ridiculously cheap house out in the suburbs, making sure that D.L. got a job, calling in favors to get both of the kids into the same prestigious private school his own children attended. Micah, at least, needed the higher quality of education, and Molly needed Micah. He wasn't so hard-hearted that he hadn't realized that.

And he'd let Claire be, contenting himself with a steam of letters and a home they wouldn't have to rebuild, even though he wanted to be down there, wanted to grab her away from the hot reaches of Texas and bring her home with him, where she belonged. He wanted to explain himself and have her _listen._ He wanted for her not to hold a pointless grudge against him for acting the only way that he knew how. What he wanted was his daughter, and from the deafening silence that echoed up from Texas, it didn't look like he was going to get his wish anytime soon.

At least she was alive, he told himself. Even that wouldn't have been true, if it had been left to him. He'd done everything in his power to keep Peter from going to save the cheerleader, and if Peter had listened to him, for once in his life, he wouldn't have saved her and he never would have found out who she was. His daughter would have lived and died ten states away and he never would have known of her existence, if it weren't for Peter.

Peter and his quests and his dreams and visions. Peter was the dreamer, Nathan was the practical one who kept him out of trouble (mostly), and the two of them balanced each other out. Nathan had once told Peter that he didn't know who he would be without his brother, and this was the absolute truth. Because Peter had been missing for months, and Nathan had no idea what he was supposed to be doing. This was Peter's territory, and all Nathan could do was fake it with the best of 'em, and hope that Peter made his way home soon.

There weren't any answers here, not among these relics of a dead artist who only wanted to save the world. And the man who'd tried to end it, too, he supposed. It was easy enough to tell the work apart, despite the fact that their styles were identical- Sylar had only ever painted himself, and Isaac had painted everything but. Peter, of course, had painted everything.

Nathan scowled downwards, tempted to kick something. All roads led back to Peter, always. Even the stain at his feet- they'd managed to clean the blood up, mostly- reminded him of Peter, wide-eyed in death on his fucking coffee table, even though the battle that took place on this floor had nothing to do with Peter, except to lead a madman one step closer to Peter's fate. He couldn't get away from the shade that haunted him, all the memories of the brother he'd never been able to ignore but had always taken for granted… Even his daughter reminded him of Peter, because Peter had been the one to find her, not Nathan.

Yes, all roads led back to Peter. They always had. He just hadn't noticed.

His phone rang, interrupting his musings. He answered without looking at the screen- "Petrelli."

There was a slight pause, and then Heidi's voice in his ear. "Nathan? It's past dinnertime, and Billings said that you left the office hours ago."

Mentally he cursed his assistant, for whom a large part of his job was to lie fluidly, effectively, and without conscience. If Nathan's wife had called asking where he was, Billings was supposed to come up with a decent excuse for Nathan's absence. Unfortunately, Heidi at her best could charm Satan himself, so he couldn't really blame Billings. He was still planning on having a nice long talk with the man tomorrow about who actually signed his paycheck, though.

"I'm fine, dear," he lied. "Just meeting up with an old friend for a few drinks, lost track of time. I should be home shortly."

There was another pause for him to sweat out. She wasn't in a wheelchair anymore, but by God, she still managed to work the guilt factor with everything she had. He wished it didn't work on him as well as it did. "Alright, dear," she said finally. "Make sure to have a story for the boys tonight, since they missed you at dinner."

A final twist of the knife before she clicked the phone shut without a goodbye- that was the woman he'd married. It shouldn't still surprise him what she could do to him, just how much she could get to him, but it did. She'd never been anybody's pawn, but she'd always been so sweet at heart, brave and caring and generally wonderful, which was how he'd fallen in love with her long after he'd started thinking that he didn't know how. She'd changed though, since her "miracle" recovery, since Peter's explosion, since he'd gone missing for three days and woke up in his own bed with no memory of what had happened since the white light of a nuclear blast seared the back of closed eyelids. He tried not to think about how different she was, how cruel and manipulative she'd gotten, and the way that Nathan's mother was almost always by her side, these days. He usually didn't lie to himself, but sometimes it was just easier to live in denial. And he needed all the easy he could get.

So, in summary: his brother was missing, he didn't trust his wife, he'd made himself responsible for a handful of lives just because they happened to share a certain genetic marker, Claire still wasn't talking to him, and he was very possibly falling in love with the very married mother of two that he saw almost every day.

It was entirely typical of his life, then, that here he was in a dead man's studio, on his daughter's birthday, totally alone.

Just like always.

 

CLAIRE BENNET- ODESSA, TEXAS

 

"Lyle, if you put those dirty paws of yours near that cake one more time-"

Lyle snatched his hand back from the cake as if burned, but defiantly stuck the two fingers of icing he'd hooked from the edge into his mouth, despite the threatening way their Mom fingered her wooden spoon. Claire grinned as he promptly made a horrible face. Lyle _hated_ dark chocolate. Served him right.

"Kill you," he mouthed at her, and she just grinned wider. It was her birthday. There wasn't a damn thing he was going to do to her today, and he knew it.

"Get out of the kitchen, you two, and make trouble somewhere else," Mom ordered. "Claire, your Dad's setting up in the living room. Go bother him." They obeyed, but not without Claire giving him an extra smirk, just because she could.

"I'm gonna kill you in your sleep one of these days, I swear," Lyle grumbled.

"Yeah, good luck with that," she said. "You want me to give you the bullet back, just as a souvenir of your failure?"

"You're such a bitch," he said, but it was affectionate, as little-brother whining went. Unlike the first time around, when he'd accidentally stumbled over her tapes on his own, she and Dad had had a chance to prepare him, first, and he'd reacted a little bit better. Marginally. He hadn't threatened to sell her out on YouTube, anyway. And he'd been downright friendly about the whole idea, once he'd gotten over his freak-out. He even teased her about it, which was his way of saying that he was cool with it. She'd gotten lucky.

"Yeah, because you're a paragon of maturity," she shot back, and then veered off towards the living room before he could think up a good comeback. It was all in the timing, that's how you dealt with Lyle. You just had to have a good exit line in place.

She headed down the side hall, relishing the shady cool of the big, rambling farmhouse they'd lived in ever since she and Dad had come back from New York. Her mom and Lyle had been staying in a Company safe house while people worked on their old house, but they'd come home to a letter from a realtor stating that a deed to a farm had just been written over to her father's name, if they'd just come in and sign…? It had Nathan Petrelli's fingerprints all over it, of course, but as much as she'd wanted to storm and stomp her foot and tell him what he could do with his damn charity, she'd taken one look at her mother's grateful face and kept quiet.

And, against her will, she'd come to love this place. They only owned the farmhouse and a few grassy acres, but they were surrounded by fields that had lain fallow for years, and whenever she felt too confined by the four walls around her she could just wander outside and explore, and there was no one to tell her to go away and mind her own business. And the house itself was magic, big enough for all of them and then some and in surprisingly good repair. Or maybe not such a surprise- she really couldn't picture Nathan Petrelli providing his only daughter with anything but the best, whether she was talking to him or not. He wanted to take care of her, and he did. Simple.

Only it wasn't so simple. He wasn't her Dad, and she didn't owe him a damn thing, and she didn't see why she should make nice with him when they didn't have anything in common but a few genes. He felt responsible, she guessed, or guilty, or he imagined some connection that just wasn't there. Or maybe some combination of all the above, she didn't know. All she knew was that there was only one member of the Petrelli family that she wanted anything to do with, and he was missing.

Her Dad wasn't in the living room, but Zach was, leaning against one wall and surveying the small pile of presents stacked on the coffee table. "You're not getting a lot of loot this year, are you?" he said. "Guess it's because you're seventeen. Not much of a landmark. Sort of stuck in the middle."

"Or, it's because half of that stuff is gift cards, so they're mostly giving me money." She punched him in the upper arm. "Dork."

"Ow," he said, leaning out of harm's way. "Not all of us have super-healing powers, you know. The rest of us have to deal with our bruises the old-fashioned way."

"Yeah, whatever." She leaned next to him and bumped his shoulder with hers. "So, what'd you get me?"

He snorted. "Like I'm going to tell you after you punched me," he said. "You'll just have to wait till it's time to open it."

"Hey, c'mon. I tell you, like, the hugest secret _ever,_ and you can't even tell me what you gave me for my birthday? Totally unfair."

"Life is a hard, cruel place," he said, and grinned at her.

She narrowed her eyes. Time to play dirty. "So, about Jake," she said sweetly. "What's going on with you two?"

Zach scowled at the subject change. "Nothing's going on with us," he said, twitching his arm away as if afraid she was going to hit him again. "He's an Arborpath. He grows plants. Since I seem to have some experience dealing with freaky people, even if I don't remember half of it-" and he bent a stern look in her direction, "-we talk. That's it."

"He confides in you!" she chirped. "You have a _connection._ This is good."

"And you have an overactive imagination," he said. "There is nothing going on with me and Jake. He's not even my type."

"I'm sorry, tall, dark, and handsome isn't _everybody's_ type? Please." She snorted. "Next thing I know I'm gonna be catching you two making out in the shed."

"Hey, I don't want to know about your weird fantasies," he said, making her laugh.

"I'm gonna find out what's going with you two soon enough," she threatened. "And you know it. You might as well give it up now and spare yourself the agony that awaits."

He gave her the eyebrow in response, but before he had a chance to say anything, her Dad came in with the cake in his hands, all candles lit. Mom and Lyle followed right behind, grinning, and no sooner had her Dad set the cake down on the sideboard then they all started singing.

At the top of their lungs.

Claire winced, hard, and resisted the urge- barely- to clap her hands over her ears in sheer auditory self-defense. She loved her family, she really did, but while her Dad had a pleasant enough baritone, Lyle had taken after their Mom by having a piercingly bad singing voice. Next to her, Zach shook with silent laughter and sang along, too, not that she could hear him over the racket Mom and Lyle were making.

She reeled a little after it was over, out of sheer relief. _Thank God, it was over._

Then she heard something else. "Are my ears ringing, or is that the doorbell?"

Everyone fell silent, and after a second the sound of the doorbell came again. "I'll get it," Claire said, already heading for the door. Anything to avoid round two of singing.

"No, Claire, it's your birthday. I've got it," her Mom said, but Claire just smiled and waved her down.

"Nah, it's okay. Make sure to cut me a big slice of that cake, okay?" she said, and headed down the hallway for the door, whistling "Happy Birthday."

The doorbell rang a third time as she neared the foyer, and she glared at the door. "I'm coming, I'm coming, hold your horses-" she said, fighting with the sticky deadbolt. "Impatient son of a-"

Peter grinned up at her from the bottom step. "Happy birthday," he said. "Got any cake?"

 

MICHAEL DUPONT- NEW YORK CITY

 

He liked to draw, a little. Well. A lot, actually. He'd been terrible at it when he was a kid, a stick-figures-at-best kind of guy, but he'd always loved it. And he'd gotten better as an adult. Practice made perfect, and all that. Sometimes it felt like another's skill moving through his hands when he said with pencil and pad, staring out the window. It was a fanciful thought, but he was given to fanciful thoughts these days. It seemed like a good way to be.

This was a good place for drawing. It had a window with a fairly good view of the streets below, and if he wanted he could watch the people below, little ants running around in their own strange little lives, or look out and up, above the tops of the tall buildings, and study the shapes that clouds made. Did it say something about you as a person, he wondered, what you saw in the clouds? Maybe it was like that test, the one with the inkblots, that supposedly said whether you were crazy or not.

Michael didn't know if he was crazy. The clouds didn't give him any clues. When he drew them he drew smiles and frowns, whales breaking through the waves, a sword clenched in a strong, competent fist, a ticking clock, a smear of blood. He didn't know what it meant, if it meant anything. But he did like watching the clouds.

Sometimes, he didn't sit near the window at all. The rest of the apartment wasn't much to speak of, just a place with a cramped living room and a water-stained kitchen and medical books stacked high on the bedroom floor where the previous occupant was too lazy or too busy to put up shelves, but it was a home of sorts. Not his home, maybe, but he liked being here, among all the things of the blue man. He even knew the blue man's name, now, from the letters that had been piled up just inside of the door. Peter Petrelli.

It was a good name, he thought. A good name for a hero.

He drew Peter Petrelli, sometimes, instead of the clouds. He drew all the things he saw in his dreams, but the only ones that he kept are the ones of Peter. Peter wasn't frightening, not like the other man. Peter made him feel safe inside, looking at the stark black lines on the page.

He didn't know why he dreamed the things he dreamed. He just liked to draw.

 

CLAIRE BENNET- ODESSA, TEXAS

 

There he is, she thought, almost mindlessly. There he _is._ He was standing right in front of her, hale and healthy except for-

Almost of its own volition, her hand stretched out to touch the thick, ropy scar that bisected his face and like magic, he was there, vaulting up to the top step with one easy leap and putting himself within reach. Just where she'd always wanted him to be. Jesus, Peter-

The scar was deep, starting above his right eye and curving diagonally down across the bridge of his nose and trailing away to a stop under his left cheekbone. It felt slick and alien under her fingers as she cupped his face in her hand, her thumb stroking wonderingly where it had cut close- too close- to his eye. It looked like something had split his skull completely open, and the same strange force that had allowed her to walk away from bridge jumps and car accidents and house fires had reknit the flesh as best as it knew how.

I saved you after all, she thought hysterically. I saved you-

His hand snapped up, faster than her eye could follow, and gripped her wrist with a kind of constrained gentleness that spoke volumes as to how hard he was trying not to break it. His eyes bored into hers, intense in a way that made her breathless, and she didn't understand the warning he was trying to give her, and she didn't care. He was alive. He was here. He'd come back to her, and that was all she gave a damn about.

She wrenched her wrist from his grip and flung her arms around him, pulling him into a hug with every ounce of strength at her disposal. After one tense, endless second, he relaxed and hugged her back, laughing into her hair.

"Don't worry," he whispered. "I'm really here."

"You damn well better be," she whispered back, "because if I'm hallucinating this, I'm gonna follow you down into the grave and drag your ass back myself."

He laughed again, hugging her tighter, almost lifting her off her feet. "I'll hold you to that," he said, his voice gravelly. "If anyone could do it, Claire Bennet, you'd be the one."

He set her down, and she took a step back, hastily wiping the tears from her eyes. "But, when? And _how?_ You've been missing for months, Peter, and I was starting to worry that you really weren't going to make it back, and here you are! Like, like, some kind of miracle or something!"

"You're the miracle, Claire." He smoothed a lock of hair away from her face, his knuckles brushing butterfly-light against her cheek. "If I'd never met you, I never would have survived the explosion. I owe you more than I can ever repay."

"Oh, screw _that,_" she said, surprising them both with her vehemence. "You stopped Sylar. You saved New York. You don't owe anybody _anything,_ least of all me."

"All right, then," he said, and draped one arm around her shoulders, hugging her close to his side. "How's about we make a deal, then. You look after me, I look after you. That sound good to you?"

"Yeah," she said, and hugged him back. Having the whole lanky length of him pressed against her side, warm and alive and _here,_ felt so damn _good._ "It's a deal."

"Oh, this is lovely as colts frisking in the sun," a disembodied voice snapped from Peter's other side. "But I'm tired and _hungry,_ and this 'un promised me cake. So you think we could get off the doorstep, maybe?"

She blinked as someone materialized in front of her, tall- taller than Peter, over six feet, probably, and he looked like he hadn't seen a razor or a good meal in _weeks._ He was dirty, scowling, and a complete and total stranger to her. And he was standing on her front doorstep.

"Try the living room," she said, trying to keep her shock off her face. "Down the hall, second door on your left. Dad should be cutting the cake."

The man snorted, shook his head. "Bennet. Yeah, this should be good." Then he turned his back and stalked off down the hall, without bothering to introduce himself or explain what he was doing, here, in her house. She sent a wild look up at Peter, who just shrugged and smiled ruefully.

"That's Claude," he said. "He's… not really a people person. And he doesn't like your Dad. Come on, let's go keep them from killing each other, okay?"

"Why not," she said blankly, and followed Peter back into the house. Because, hell, Peter was alive. What was a surly stranger who hated her Dad compared to that?

 

NOAH BENNET- ODESSA, TEXAS

 

He couldn't believe his eyes.

He'd known Claude was alive. A little hard to miss it, what with Peter wandering around invisible in the weeks before the explosion. He'd seen the two of them, pacing around that rooftop, through the infared night-scope, but he hadn't _seen_ Claude since that fateful day on the bridge so many years ago. Seeing him here, now, with Peter Petrelli (alive!) in tow, was the kind of strange that even he needed a moment to adjust to.

Finally he said "Long time, no see," because sometimes you just had to resort to the inane.

Claude evidently disagreed, because he gave a horsey snort of disgust and said, "That's the best you can come up with? You shot me twice, knocked me off a bridge, then ten years later you track me down and taser me. And the best you've got is, 'Long time no see?'"

Well. Claude certainly hadn't changed any. "For the record, I wasn't tracking you at all," he said. "There was a psychopath stalking my daughter, and I was using Mendez to find him. Finding you was merely an accident."

Claude sneered. "Petrelli's fault, no doubt."

"The painting was of Peter," Noah allowed.

"Fuckin' typical." He stalked from one end of the couch to the other, the tails of his long coat swirling restively behind him. (Long coat? In Texas? He _must_ have come from New York. That, or his blood really did run with ice, but that had never been scientifically proven.)

"And yet you're here with him," Noah said. "Dragged by your ear, it looked to me."

"Yeah, well." Claude stuck his hands in his pockets and looked like he was fighting the urge to hunch his shoulders defensively. No sense of body language, Claude. Never needed to learn it. "It's complicated."

Noah let out a bark of laughter. "I'll say," he said. "Why don't you start at the beginning? Like, say, what are you doing here?"

Claude looked at him reproachfully. "'s not the beginning," he said. "Taught you how to report better than that, didn't I?"

"I knew how to give a report long before I met you and the long, long list of regulations that you broke, of which reporting properly was only the first," Noah said steadily. "It's the beginning for me."

"Fair 'nough." He started pacing again, the soles of his boots scuffing noiselessly against the carpet. He always did like to move when he was thinking things through, which was a habit Noah had worked him damn hard to break, since it had almost gotten them killed a time or two on a mission. Claude liked to think that he'd played the mentor, but the truth was his previous partner had been such a maverick that it had taken Noah most of the length of their partnership to train him in operating procedures. Training that Claude had put to good use when he went off the grid; he would have been caught a year in, at the most, if Noah hadn't taught him the things he needed to survive. Later on, Noah hadn't been sure that he hadn't done it for just that reason, no matter how much of the rulebook he'd quoted at his ex-partner.

"Peter found out that you were knockin' off some of the key Company men."

Noah automatically looked toward the doorway, worried that Claire would hear, but Claude shook his head. "The boy'll have her for hours yet, believe you me," he said. "Though I would've thought you'd've learnt your lesson about keeping secrets."

"Some things are need-to-know basis only," Noah said. "Which I would've thought _you'd_ learned the hard way."

"I learned a lot about _trusting_ people, sure," Claude snarled, then visibly reined himself in. "That's not the point. Point is, that Company-issue pistol of yours is getting quite a workout, only this time you're going after the Company itself, not the freaks it's after. Th' boy caught wind of what you were up to, an' after that trying to keep him out of Odessa was like trying to rope the damn wind." He shook his head, almost fondly. "Force of nature, that boy. And he's got a protective streak a mile wide when it comes to your daughter. He wants to look out for her, and as it happens he's on board with your little plan, so here we are. Against my advice," he added.

Noah took a split second to process, which he did without changing his expression in the slightest. There was a reason he'd been partnered with a stealth Talent like Claude; he could blend into a room better than any invisible man. "You're the ones who've been taking out the others," he said. "I knew there was someone, the body count was a little higher than I could account for, but I never thought…" He shook his head. "I didn't even believe Peter was alive. Claire tried to tell me, but I saw that explosion."

"The boy's an _Empath,_ you twit," Claude said. "And since he's close as peas in a pod with that girl of yours, that mean's he's a Healer, too. Or did you forget that little tidbit?"

"I've never seen anyone heal back from that," Noah said. "And I doubt you have either, or you wouldn't look quite so ridiculously smug."

Claude shook his head. "You haven't slipped any," he said wonderingly. "Hard to believe you're such a blockhead about your own daughter. Or did you forget who her _real_ parents were?"

"We're her real parents," Noah snapped back. "We've earned it."

"If you say so," Claude said. "Her biological parents then, however you like it. A pyrokinetic who blew up the damn room and walked out as sweet as you please, and that snake politician can break the bloody sound barrier when he flies. Of _course_ she can heal that well, you damn fool. And if she can heal like that, then Peter can too."

"That's not quite how it works," Noah said.

"Maybe not with the other Empaths you had, but Peter's different. That one's like nothing you've ever seen, and nothing you'll ever see again. You remember that when you're working with him, and maybe we won't get into as much trouble as he usually manages."

Noah blinked. "We?"

"Why the hell do you think I let him drag my sorry arse all the way down to this godforsaken town? Christ, Bennet, grow a fucking brain. We're here to _help,_ you wanker. Like I would've come for anything else," he said with a scowl. "As it happens you know a bit more about the Company infrastructure than I do, and even Peter can only go so far without a little inside info. So here we are."

"Here you are," Noah echoed. "And what if I don't want your help?"

"Then you're crazy, not that it matters," Claude said. "Didn't you listen to a word I said? Peter's decided, and not a man alive has been born that can change his mind when he's got the bit between the teeth."

"So you're saying I have no choice," Noah said. "We have to…" He almost couldn't say it, the whole idea was too funny. "…Work together," he said. "To take out the Company."

"What's left of it, yeah," Claude said. "It took a hit when some bint with a techie Talent took out their satellite, and we've been making a few inroads since, but yeah, we're here to wipe it out. Get to the snake's head, so to speak."

"And I suppose the only thing I can do is invite you into my home and make the best of it," Noah said.

"Got it in one," he said, and finally sat down on the couch, which seemed to be a signal that the argument was over, so Bennet sat down too. "I don't much want to be here either, but I'll stay out of your way if you stay out of mine."

"I think I can manage it," Noah said mildly, who had every intention of doing exactly that. Claude was a combustible substance on the best of days, and Noah had no inclination to risk setting him off. He'd had enough of that before he'd shot the man. They'd both done their duty when it came to any kind of partnership. "And you've had plenty of practice."

"So that's it then," Claude said. "We're stuck till it's over. Working together. Living together." He let his head fall back and laughed. "God help us all."

 

NIKI SANDERS- NEW YORK CITY

 

D.L. and Nathan were having a stare-down in her kitchen when she got there, though on the surface it probably looked like they were having a pleasant conversation. The kids didn't seem to know what was going on, which was something, at least, but there were times that Niki was grateful she'd been born female, and this was one of them. Didn't men ever get tired of playing their little testosterone games?

She decided that it was up to her to interfere, since left on their own they'd probably keep staring and talking politely and wishing fiery deaths on each other, so she came into the kitchen and broke it up. "Nathan, hello," she said, with what she hoped was a casual smile. Wouldn't do to let the cretins know that she wanted to beat both of their stupidly male heads in. "Thanks again for doing this for us." Again.

"It's not a problem," he said, in what had to be the most blatant lie she'd ever heard, despite the fact that she had a fairly devious nine-year-old and she'd been kinda evil herself for a while there. Driving out here to pick up her kids had to take a huge chunk of time from his mornings that he probably couldn't afford as a busy junior Congressman, but he said it as blandly as if he lived right next door and did nothing but sit around all day and play house husband.

(He had his politician smile on, too. It was especially funny for her, because his politician smile looked remarkably like Micah's "power outage? What power outage? I certainly wasn't messing with the circuit breakers trying to figure out how they work" smile. Basically, neither one of them pulled off innocent particularly well. But then, this was New York City, and much like Las Vegas, nobody was much interested in electing any kind of innocent for anything.)

She let the lie stand, though. One way or another, he always managed to find an excuse to stop by at least once a week, and she wasn't selfish enough to take away the only hope he had for finding his brother. Not that Molly had had much success, but still. And if she always felt a flutter of anticipation when he called to say he'd be by to give the kids a ride, well, she was dealing with it. She had it control, mostly.

"Where are the boys?" she asked. Usually they came in with him, Monty trying to stand back and look like a grown-up while Simon scrambled up onto the chair next to Micah and Molly, saying hi and stealing bites of their breakfast, if they weren't fast enough to stop him. Simon was a child who was not unsure of his welcome or his friends. She wished that her kids had met more like him, but it wasn't likely at that snobby school of theirs.

(Shut, it, you, she told herself. Micah needs that school, and Nathan got him in without you even asking. Be grateful, and keep your mouth shut.)

"In the car," he said, rolling his eyes. She wondered at the gesture, and then, "I got Monty that new handheld game for his birthday. The two of them have been glued to that thing ever since. I think they'd take it to bed with them, if I let them."

She tried to hide her envy. She'd spent _weeks_ looking for that thing when it came out, trying to get it in time for Micah's Christmas present, but she hadn't ever had a prayer. That sucker hit the shelves and vanished all in one day. She didn't really have the money for it, anyway. No matter how much Micah would love it, she'd have to wait till she could find it used.

"Well, you're all going to be late if you don't get moving," she said. "Micah, honey? Put your dishes in the sink and get your stuff, okay? We don't want to keep Mr. Petrelli waiting." This said pointedly towards her husband, who'd been doing just that with his little stare-down despite the fact that the kids had already finished their breakfast.

"Sure, Mom."

"Good man." She scrubbed the palm of her hand through his rough curls, just like D.L.'s had been back in the day when he'd actually let his hair grow, and guided him off towards the sink with a little push to the back of his neck when he picked up his dishes. Molly followed him out of the room, heading towards the living room with an intent expression on her little face. Some of her homework stuff had been left out there the night before, and God forbid the kid face the day without a complete collection of school supplies.

She took the opportunity to send D.L. another speaking look, but he avoided her eyes. Ah. He was up to something, then, not just the usual macho games. She started to worry, a little, because D.L. was usually pretty harmless, but she remembered the way he'd been when they'd first started dating, when she hadn't really liked him all that much and he'd decided to win her heart whether she wanted to give it or not. When D.L. wanted something, he usually found a way to get it, and he could be really goddamned sneaky when he wanted to. If he'd started plotting in earnest against Nathan, who wasn't exactly a beginner at mind games himself, she didn't want to be stuck here at ground zero. She just didn't.

Molly reappeared in the doorway a second later, biting her look and looking like she wanted something, but didn't quite know how to ask. Niki temporarily forgot about the men and went over to her, asking, "What is it, sweetie?" It she waited for Molly to feel comfortable enough to tell her what the problem was, she'd be waiting here all day, and none of them wanted that.

"I lost my favorite pen under the couch," Molly told her.

The simplest course of action would have been to send Molly off to school without the damn pen, and if it had been Micah, she would have, but this was Molly and Molly needed careful handling sometimes. She was oddly fussy about her school supplies, for reasons Niki didn't understand and probably never would, and it was usually simpler to just humor her, especially when it was something this harmless.

"Well, we'll just have to get it back, won't we?" She ruffled Molly's hair as she passed by, heading for the couch. "Gimme just a second. You'll be out of here in a jiff."

She knelt down and reached underneath, but couldn't feel the pen. Twisting so that her cheek was lying on the carpet and she could actually see her target, she did another sweep, but her seeking fingers couldn't quite reach the pen.

She supposed that was what she got for buying a couch that was quite that low to the ground. "Hangon, I can't… quite…" She got her other hand underneath and pressed upwards, levering the couch up a couple of inches. "Hah!" Pen in hand, she pulled back and let the couch thump back to the floor, straightening again and brandishing her prize.

Both Nathan and her husband were watching from the doorway, intent expressions on both their faces. Nathan was more polite about it, doing something complicated with his smile to make it seem like he wasn't doing anything in particular and she didn't want to blame him, did she? and D.L. was a lot less subtle, but still, she didn't think he'd appreciate the comparison.

She raised an eyebrow at both of them. "Is there something I can do for you gentlemen?"

"No, I'm good," said D.L.

D.L., of course, could phase through solid objects. His power wasn't exactly a secret to anyone in this house, including Nathan. There was no reason why he couldn't have reached through the couch when he saw she was struggling, and gotten the pen for her. Which meant that he'd wanted to see her lift the couch.

"You could have just asked," she pointed out. He grinned sheepishly.

"Always was a fan of Supergirl," he said. She rolled her eyes and handed the pen off to Molly.

"Here you go, hon. Now get Micah and tell him to hurry, would you? You're going to be late for school."

She nodded and ran off to retrieve her brother, who came back with her a split second later, backpack over his shoulder- he'd probably heard her talking to Molly and realized it was time to book. She gave them both a kiss on the cheek and sent them off with Nathan, who smiled his goodbye as he was practically towed out the door by her children. The bang of the door echoed through the kitchen, and in silence she and D.L. listened as the car started up, then backed out of the driveway and drove away.

"So," she said, and then stopped. She had no idea what she wanted to say.

"We need to talk," said D.L.

 

NATHAN PETRELLI- NEW YORK CITY

 

The problem with driving Niki's kids along with his is that it was hard to ask Molly for what he wanted. Secrets were a way of life for people like her (like him) and he understood that better than Peter ever had. Peter wanted to be all he could be, and that led to him becoming something he never wanted. Simone wanted to tell the world, and that got her dead. Nathan just wanted to hide, and he survived. He'd never dream of asking Molly for more than she wanted to give.

But for all that she was a quiet kid, shy, scared of her own shadow, she understood _need_ in a way that few children did. Oh, kids always thought they needed something. They needed a new Playstation, something from the candy shop, an extra scoop of ice cream, they needed to stay up late and play outside in the rain even when it was freezing outside and wrestle on expensive furniture and have the coolest bike on the block. Kids, for the most part, equated "want" with "need" and it was usually a hard lesson, learning the difference.

He knew only the barest details of what had happened to Molly- that her parents were murdered, that Sylar had been the murderer, that he'd done it to get to her- but it was enough to tell him that Molly's hard lesson had been learned early on in life. The only things that Molly needed were to be loved, and to be safe, and to know that the people who loved her were safe too. And she understood that just as she _needed_ those things, he _needed_ to find Peter.

By the time he'd buckled in and put the car in motion, she'd pulled out the world map from under the seat and had it open across her lap, pin in hand, sweeping steadily and hopelessly over the open pages.

She kept it up for another minute or so while his eldest kicked at the back of his seat and his youngest gleefully blew up aliens in the front, but when she looked up and met his gaze in the rearview mirror, she shook her head. Like always.

Well, he hadn't expected any different. Not really. But he wasn't going to give up the one chance he had of finding his brother, and she understood that, too. That's why she kept trying, even when he didn't have a chance to ask. Because if her parents were lost instead of gone, she'd never give up, either.

With that settled, he turned his attention to the sullen boy sitting directly behind him. His boy, of course. Niki had raised Micah too well to kick at anyone's seat.

"Monty. Stop kicking my seat."

"But it's my _turn!_ And Simon won't hand it over!"

"It," of course, being the handheld he'd gotten Monty for his birthday. Usually his boys were pretty good at sharing- witness the fact that Simon had his hands on the toy at all- but apparently, there were limits. The whole scene was a little alien to Nathan- not because he hadn't seen it played out a million times since Simon was two and Monty three (because they had… God, had they ever), but because it was never like this for him as a kid. Peter was so much younger than him that sharing toys was just never an issue.

He glanced at the clock and realized that it was, in fact, time for Simon to hand it over. They'd been time-sharing it for the last few days, but Nathan was almost to the point of giving up and letting them fight it out, because if they kept it up for much longer he was going to have a headache the size of Montana. "Simon, give your brother back his game."

"But I'm almost finished the level!" Simon didn't even look up from the screen. Nathan was pretty sure he'd never been _that_ defiant of his father. Then again, he couldn't exactly regret not using his father as a role model of parenting, so he supposed it was a fair trade-off.

"Simon." He didn't bother to raise his voice, but then, he knew he didn't have to. It was the Obedience or Death voice. So far, it had never failed him.

"Alright, alright." Simon hit "save" and passed the game back to Monty, who attacked it with all the finesse of a rabid bear. Nathan shook his head. Kids.

With his distraction gone, Simon started twisting around in his seat, talking excitedly to Micah and Molly. Well, mostly Molly, since from what he could see of the backseat, Micah was leaning over Monty's shoulder to watch the game, and Monty was allowing it with the sense of camaraderie video games seemed to induce in all boys, no matter what their age. Molly, who was about as uninterested in video games as it was possible to be, was leaning forward and giggling at something Simon had said that Nathan couldn't quite catch.

Nathan had known they were friends. He'd gotten Micah and Molly into their school with exactly that hope, and Simon had talked about her and Micah, and they'd been to a couple cookouts at the Sanders household and the two of them had been thick as little thieves then, but he hadn't, until just this moment, realized how close they really were. Simon and Monty had always been friends with each other first and foremost (all brotherly squabbles aside) and he'd known the day would come that someone else would come along that would pry them apart, but he hadn't realized that the someone would be Molly.

He wondered what else he didn't know about his children. And he didn't like the possible answers.

 

NIKI SANDERS- NEW YORK CITY

 

Niki went very still at D.L.'s pronouncement. "Talk about what?" she asked. Her voice was falsely bright with unshed tension.

"I dunno, Nik, why don't you tell me. You're the one who's been acting so weird lately."

"I have not been acting 'weird,'" she said with all the asperity she could muster, but it rang false. Even she could hear it, but she couldn't seem to do anything about it, couldn't seem to find the right note to strike to make D.L. believe what she was saying.

And believe her he obviously didn't. "You _have,_ Niki, and you know it. You're lucky the kids haven't noticed yet, but I have."

"There's nothing wrong," she insisted stubbornly.

"That so? If there's nothing wrong, then, why is it that you get up in the middle of the night, nine times out of ten? We share a bed, and you expect me not to notice when you aren't sleeping?"

"It's nothing," she said. "I don't want to talk about it." That last was true, at least. She didn't want to talk about this at all.

"Oh, come on, you're a shitty liar and you always have been, you can't possibly expect me to buy that. Ever since that congressman started coming around-"

She flinched.

He was silent for a long, excruciating minute. "So that's what it is," he said finally. His voice gave nothing away. "I wondered. I mean, a blind man would have seen the way he looks at you." She turned away and started fussing with the dishes to buy herself time before she had to come up with an answer. "What happened, Nik? Was he the replacement? Or was it just to work off a little of your debt?"

She whirled around, dishes falling back into the sink with a heavy clatter. Distantly, she was aware enough to hope that they hadn't broken, but most of her attention was focused on D.L., and the red haze of rage that was descending over her vision. "How _dare_ you."

"I'm daring kind of a lot these days," he said. "So you're saying that it had _nothing_ to do with Linderman? Because I'm gonna have a hard time believing it."

She couldn't quite bring herself to lie. "No, I'm not saying that-"

"Ha!"

"-But I am saying that it's a damn sight more complicated than that!"

"Let me guess," he sneered. "Jessica."

She blinked and had to force herself to keep from taking a step back from the force of the scorn in his voice. "As a matter of fact, yes."

"Yeah, right."

The muscles in her neck and shoulders locked into place. "Ex-_cuse_ me?"

"You heard me. You know what, babe? I don't think you and _Jessie_ were as separate as you liked to think you were. She might have been the one whoring herself out, but you were right there with her, enjoying the ride."

Her hand was around his throat before she was consciously aware of moving. She didn't know what she was trying to do, even, kill him, hurt him, prove a point? But before her hand could close and crush his windpipe into nothingness, he phased backwards out of her grip, smiling grimly.

"Touch a nerve?" he taunted. "You keep forgetting that I'm not your little congressional boy-toy. You can't hurt me."

Her fists clenched on nothing at her sides so she wouldn't reach out and try to do it again. "There's a bullet hole on your body that says different, _lover._"

"You don't have a gun on you now, Nikki."

Maybe not. "You want to know the truth? Yeah, I fucked him. Or rather, Jessica did. She had to step in, see, because I couldn't do it. I was going to walk away. And you know why?"

He didn't say anything.

"Because I'm a married woman," she told him, and left the kitchen.


	3. Chapter 3

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[anatomy series](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/anatomy+series), [big boom](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/big+boom), [fic](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/fic), [heroes](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/heroes), [het](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/het), [peter/claire](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/peter/claire), [peter/claude](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/peter/claude), [slash](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/slash)  
  
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CLAUDE RAINES- ODESSA, TEXAS

 

There was an art to moving silently. Some of the skills that were needed changed according to the environment- avoiding creaking floorboards as opposed to avoiding the crunch of broken glass, for example- but one thing always stayed the same. You had to move fluidly, with the flow of air, or you risked the slight breeze, the twitch of displaced air that could give you away. Claude had had several decades to learn the art, and he was a master of his craft.

He was exploring the farmhouse, slowly, room by room and floor by floor. He didn't like holing up somewhere if he didn't know every inch of the place, all of the creaky floorboards and vents and alcoves where an invisible man could press himself hard into the wall, hold his breath, and wait unnoticed while someone passed him by. It was taking him some time- the farmhouse Peter's rich, guilty brother had paid for was a rambling, two-story affair that was just about as old as it looked, and every time he thought he had his surroundings pinned down to the smallest detail, something else showed up to surprise him.

Beyond that, he was just curious. And he'd spent years exploring people's homes to satisfy his curiosity, and didn't see any reason to stop now.

He wanted to know Bennet, try and figure out what made him tick. This was the man that had fucking _shot_ him, after all. For trying to protect someone who, at the core of it, was just like him. And maybe it was ten years ago and the wounds were long healed, and maybe Bennet was the reason the Company went down and he went much, much farther to protect his daughter than Claude had ever done, and maybe things were different, but that didn't meant that Claude had forgiven him. Understood him, maybe. Forgiven him, no. A fact that Bennet'd have to be blind to miss, but Peter played mediator well enough- could see the sensitive kid in an ambitious family all over him when he did, seems he'd had more than his fair share of practice- so they hadn't killed each other. Yet.

Didn't mean that he felt guilty spying on the man when Bennet didn't know he was there. Oh, on some level Bennet knew, the two of them had been partners for years, he knew how Claude operated- but he never knew exactly _when_ Claude was spying on him, and that was just how Claude liked it. He wanted to know why Bennet had done it, beyond the obvious love for his daughter.

(Claude would bet every dollar to his name that Bennet hadn't talked to the girl about her power, hadn't let on just how _powerful_ she was- Claude had never seen anyone heal like that, _anyone,_ and he'd met his fair share of healers. Petrellis had the gene good and proper, you had to give them that. Any family that could throw out someone like Peter and then Claire a generation later had to have some good bloodlines somewhere.)

So far, he hadn't gotten any answers. None that he liked, anyway.

"But it doesn't _want_ to grow. It's winter; it just wants to go back to sleep."

Bennet's voice was unbelievably patient as he said, for the fifth or sixth time, "Yes, but you're not a plant, Jake. You don't sleep all winter, not unless it's a snow day," he added, winning a grin from the gangly kid. "It'll take its cue from you, if you concentrate. Let it feel how awake _you_ are, and _it_ will wake up, too."

"Huh." The kid seemed to think about this, his head cocked to the side. "So I'm, like, _bonding_ with the plant? Not just talking to it?"

"If you want to make yourself sound like a sci-fi novel, sure. It's a close enough analogy."

"Dude, I'm talking to plants," the kid said. Claude would have smacked him, but Bennet just smiled tolerantly. "I'm already _living_ the sci-fi novel." But he reached out and spread his hands around the sides of the clay pot, his thumbs hooked over the top so that his fingernails were just barely dipped into the earth. He frowned in concentration, the creases at the corner of his eyes getting deeper, and then the plant, a common household flower shriveled up and gray because of the winter, straightened and filled out and flushed to a full, healthy green.

The boy opened his eyes and was greeted with Bennet's proud smile. "Well done," he said, and the kid fucking beamed.

Claude took off before he could see any more. He'd gone looking for answers and he'd found some, but Christ, what was he supposed to do with the knowledge that Bennet could teach? Not just teach, but teach _well,_ better than Claude even, with the air of someone who'd been in that chair time and time again. Bennet always had been good at manipulating people, changing on a dime to show them the face they wanted or needed to see, but he'd always used it like leverage, pressuring and prying people till they gave up all their secrets. His job had ended the moment they brought the target back to the Company cells, and Claude's job had begun all over again. He'd never once seen Bennet interact with the targets any more than was necessary.

Now he was wondering just what Bennet had been doing, all those years Claude Rains had been dead to the world. How many people had Bennet taught like this, slowly opening them up to the full reaches of their power, pushing them this way and pulling them that until they blossomed under his seeking, relentless mind? Dozens, Claude would guess. And now the Company was slowly burning to ash under that same careful, manipulating hand, and all those people Bennet had used for his own advantage were free to live their lives as they chose.

There was something there, a simple truth that he just couldn't reach, but he was damned if he was going to stick around and watch Bennet cozen his newest project. He left the living room behind and went upstairs to find Peter.

Peter was where he always was, which was to say, near Claire. One way or another, Peter didn't stray far, mostly leaving the house only for missions and sticking close when he wasn't out saving the world, one Company operative at a time. He stuck close to Claude, too- telepathically, anyway. Claude had gotten used to the little psychic nudges that came throughout the day, and let himself nudge back as much as any non-telepath could. If he'd thought Peter was codependent _before_ his explosion, it was nothing to the way he was now. Not that it reduced his effectiveness any- the boy was fucking scary when he put his mind to it- but the fact that _Claude_ was one of his touchstones made it a hell of a lot less irritating than when he was worried what his brother would think all the time. Petty, but true.

Peter was lurking outside of her room- invisibly, of course, wouldn't do to have her mum wander by and see him playing stalker. Sandra was an infinitely hospitable woman, but even she probably had her limits. Seeing him again had thrown her, Claude knew- she was a lot sharper than her husband gave her credit for, she had to know some of the things that had gone on behind the scenes, but in the end it was the fact that he was here, alive that had sent her into a tailspin, not the fact that he was one of Them, just like her daughter. Sandra called it a gift from God. Claude didn't bother to correct her- the man Upstairs hadn't bothered with Claude since he was born, he wasn't about to pay tribute on the one thing that had made him special.

"You have got to stop doing this," Claude said. Peter was sitting on the floor across from the hall, his eyes fixed on the girly little nameplate on Claire's door, but he looked up when Claude came over and smiled his welcome.

"Stop doing what?" he asked, like he didn't know. Claude shook his head and slid down the wall to sit next to him.

"Stalkin' her like this. Girl's gonna get a complex if you don't ease off some."

"Relax, it's not like she can see me," he said. Claude just rolled his eyes.

"You never change," he grumbled, and no, Peter really didn't. He was needy, codependent, and at the same time oddly reluctant to actually _do_ anything about it, demand the sort of emotional connection that he so obviously craved. Claude gave it to him anyway, because it cost him nothing, not anymore, and because Peter had given him a hell of a lot more in return. Claire, apparently, didn't know Peter quite so well, because she hung back a little, smiled a lot, and hugged him every chance she got. She was doing her best to treat him like her Uncle Peter, but it wasn't working all that well.

It was all a bit pathetic, really. Claude wanted to laugh at the two of them, but instead he was tempted to punch Peter in the face, just for being so _thick._ The girl was his niece, for crying out loud. Wasn't even legal age, and here he was, head over heels. Sitting in the dark and watching over her like it made a damn bit of difference.

Somewhere, deep inside, existed the knowledge that he was jealous. Claude liked to ignore that part of himself, even when it managed to sneak out and grab ahold of his mouth before his brain could intervene.

"Speakin' of changing, have you wandered in on 'er yet? I mean, I've seen the pretty niece all but bare a couple times, and let me tell you, she's young but she's got _promise,_ if you know what I mean."

He stopped and almost cringed, waiting to get punched himself. Peter had a temper, sure, and they weren't averse to working out their frustrations by beating each other with sticks and calling it "training," but Peter had never struck him in anger, no matter how much Claude had goaded him. He'd never gone quite this far before, though, and all he could think was _stupid, stupid, stupid,_ as Peter slowly swiveled his head to stare at Claude in the semidark.

"My advice, if you're interested," Peter said, and Claude realized that the bastard was _smiling, _"would be to not tell Claire about that."

And then he went back to staring at Claire's door, just like that, while Claude sat there and gawked at him. He'd never understand what went on in that boy's head, never. He _knew_ Claude was wandering around, spying on a family that had all but adopted the both of them, and Claude tells him that he's been looking at Peter's crush of the century without her clothes on, and Peter doesn't even bother to warn him off proper.

What's he thinking? Claude wondered, not for the first time, and not for the last. What does he want? Peter always seemed so simple on the surface- want girl, save girl, stop bad guys, don't explode, save the world, and Claude understood all that. It was moments like these that he realized that he didn't understand Peter at all, didn't know a single fucking thing about whatever game Peter was playing.

Truth be told, he was happy enough just to be one of the pieces on the board. And if that wasn't the most pathetic thing about the lot of them, he didn't know what was.

 

MOHINDER SURESH- NEW YORK CITY

 

Mohinder emptied his glass, set it down, and said, with no little amazement, "I think I'm drunk."

Next to him, Matt chuckled. "That you are, my friend," he said. "And I'm not far behind."

Mohinder couldn't remember why, exactly, he was drunk. The circumstances leading up to the two of them sitting on his couch and working their way through what seemed to be a good quantity of alcohol were all a long, hazy blur.

He didn't realize he'd said that out loud till Matt replied, "It's not like it was a special occasion, or anything. I just lured you out of the lab with the promise of food and booze."

Mohinder surveyed the carnage of bottles and glasses spread out over his coffee table. "Well, you accomplished the alcohol, at least."

"Oh, ye of little faith," Matt said. "I was just waiting for the right moment." He got to his feet, staggered a little, and then made his careful way into the kitchen. Mohinder let his head loll back against the headrest and listened to a variety of interesting thumps and rustles from the other room, and a minute later Matt reemerged with a bag of chips in one hand and a pan of something chocolatey in the other.

"Chips and brownies," Matt said proudly, nudging a couple bottles out of the way and depositing the pan on the table. "Food of choice for booze and hanging with your buddies."

_Is that what we are?_ Mohinder thought, but didn't say aloud. He wasn't _quite_ that drunk. "Did you bake them yourself?" he asked instead, surveying the brownies with no little amount of suspicion. He had no idea whether Matt could cook or not, but if he had to make a guess he'd lean towards most emphatically _not._

"Nope," Matt said cheerfully, confirming Mohinder's suspicions. "The lady down the hall for me made 'em as a thank-you, since I fixed her door so it wouldn't stick anymore." He nabbed the first brownie and took a healthy bite, his eyes daring Mohinder to do the same. He did, gingerly, then with more enthusiasm as he realized that they were, in fact, delicious.

Half a pan of brownies and an indeterminate amount of chips later, Mohinder was a good deal drunker and much more careless with his words. "Tell me about your family," he said, which he _never_ would have asked, not if he were in control of his faculties.

Matt didn't seem offended, however. "It's just me, now," he said. Mohinder made a sympathetic noise, and he just shrugged. "It's been a little while," he said, but there was a shadow in his eyes that said, not long enough. "My real father left when I was really young," he went on, around another mouthful of brownie. "So I don't know anything about him. My mom remarried after a while, and that was the guy I knew as my father. He was the one who got me into this business."

"Children of policemen often follow their parents into the force," Mohinder said. Matt said nothing. "And your mother? What is she like?"

A faraway look came into his eyes. "She was… Oh, I don't know, like everyone's mother, I guess. She liked to sew, and make sandwiches, and fuss at us when we weren't getting our work done, and take care of us when we were sick. Not a real independent woman, Mom," he said with a flash of humor. "She liked to stay at home and collect things."

"What sort of things?"

"Oh, everything. Stamps, coins, books, though she never read 'em. Dishes. Snowglobes."

"It sounds very like my father," Mohinder said. "Although his obsession was his research, but I on some level it is much the same urge. It took me weeks to go through all of the notes he'd left behind, and that's _after_ the Company man, Bennet, had gone through and practically trashed the place."

"Good thing he's one the side of angels now, huh?" Matt said.

"I suppose," Mohinder said, as he still had his doubts about Bennet. He hadn't killed Molly when he could have, however, and he'd gone out of his way to help them once he'd made up his mind. "You arrived with him, if I remember, from Texas. What was it like, traveling across the country with the man who'd tagged you?"

"Road trip from hell," Matt laughed, and Mohinder, busy with a personal revelation, didn't press him.

They did have that kind of friendship.

This was a dangerous sort of thing for him to know, because he was so, so lonely. Eden was a long time ago, and she wasn't who she said she was anyway, and he missed having someone to be close to. And here was Matt, slouched loose and smiling on his couch, and his hands practically itched with the urge to reach out.

But he'd learned a lot about restraint since he came to New York. The last man he looked at like this turned out to be his father's killer, and Mohinder can't- won't- risk himself like that again. He just… can't.

So he took another drink, smiled back at Matt, and very sensibly kept his hands to himself.

 

CLAIRE BENNET- ODESSA, TEXAS

 

Weirdly enough, Jake the arborparth turned out to be a pretty good cook. She hadn't really known much about him at first, other than the fact that he was a little older than her, made plants grow, was pretty cute and that her best friend totally had a crush on him, no matter how much Zach whined that it "wasn't like that." But then her Dad had started teaching him how to control his powers (and how weird was _that,_ her Dad the mutant-hunter extraordinaire actually helping one out?) and that meant that Jake had started coming around a lot more. She was almost surprised to discover that she liked him. If nothing else, they always had their freaky-weird powers to talk about.

And he could cook. Well enough that her Mom let him have pretty much free reign over the kitchen, which was a previously unheard-of event in the Bennet household. But, well, it was a new era, out with the old and in with the new, and right now the New Thing was Jake in the kitchen and Claire sitting on the counter watching him with the fascination that a tone-deaf person had for a master pianist.

"It's really not that hard," he told her, his hands buried to the wrist in a huge lump of some sort of dough. He hadn't bothered to tell her what he was actually making.

"No, see, that is where you are wrong, my friend," she shot back. "It really _is_ that hard." She waggled her eyebrows for emphasis, pleased at the quiet chuckle she got. She loved hamming it up with Jake. Zach always gave her that "I've lived next door to you since second grade and you're really not as funny as you think you are," long-suffering eye-roll. Jake was new and untried territory, and? He played along.

"You just like people cooking for you and don't feel like learning," he accused with a grin. "Your mom's got you spoiled."

"Maybe. But I have good reason to avoid learning. You've heard about the time I lost my fingers to the garbage disposal, right? And the time I managed to set my arm on fire trying to boil water? My kitchen mishaps are many and varied, and for the sake of my mom's peace of mind, I agreed to stay away from cooking-type things. It's really safer for all concerned."

"For you?"

"For the kitchen," she corrected, and laughed when his eyebrows went skyward. He knew what she could do, she'd broken a few bones to prove a point when she and Zach had gone to visit him that one time, but it still surprised him sometimes when she said something like that. He'd get used to it, she knew. Claude's powers, or Peter's, didn't seem to startle him so much, but she'd long ago accepted that there was something uniquely disturbing about her ability to heal. The ability to read minds, or teleport, or be invisible, those were fantastical things, something out of a comic book, where her power was disturbingly physical, relating the fantastic to the mundane. She was no Wolverine; didn't have steel claws or memory loss, just a deep knowledge of human anatomy, learned the hard way. She'd spent hours doing sketches of herself, layer by layer- bone and muscles and tendons and organs, all of the things she'd seen up close and personal.

These were drawings that she didn't show her Dad. Somehow, she didn't think he'd appreciate them.

"No, seriously, you don't believe me?" she said impulsively. "Check this out." She grabbed the long-handled lighter they used with the broken burner on the oven, and depressed the trigger, holding it up against her arm.

"Claire!" he shouted, leaping forward to stop her, and she danced backwards, avoiding his reaching hands.

"Chill, would you? It's just a little burn." She watched as the skin blackened and started to bubble, distantly aware of screaming nerve endings but not really worried about it. She'd never felt pain the way other people did, which is how she'd made it through the first couple weeks of cheerleading without dying. She wasn't sure if it was something that was related to her power, or just some built-in failsafe in her genetic code that made it possible for her to shake off deathly injuries and keep walking while they healed. She tended to think it was the latter, since Peter didn't have the same thing, couldn't take hits the way she could, and he otherwise mimicked her power exactly.

She was more worried about her t-shirt than her arm. Her mom had given her this shirt years ago, and she didn't want it getting burn marks all over it. Skin she could grow back; fabric, not so much.

"Am I interrupting something?" came an amused voice from behind her.

She whirled around, letting the flame die and tossing the lighter onto the counter. "Peter, hey! I didn't realize you were back yet."

"Just." He looked down at her arm, where the charred skin was already healing, crispy black flesh rolling away into pink, new skin. "Oddly enough, this doesn't look like cooking."

"Claire was demonstrating," Jake said, his voice as dry as if he hadn't been freaking out a minute before. "And I was cooking, until she decided to play show-and-tell." He went back to the counter and grabbed the dough. "I'll just get this in the oven and clear out. It's supposed to be a thank-you for Mr. Bennet for all the lessons he's been giving me, and it won't be much of a surprise if he shows up while I'm baking it."

"I think you've got some time," Peter said, amused. "He and Claude were still yelling at each other when I left." He looked over at Claire. "I got some stuff for you, this great bakery in Portland, but your Dad's got it. Just make sure you don't eat it all at once."

She put one hand on her hip, feeling the taut, not-quite-scar-tissue stretch and then loosen to the elasticity of normal skin. "That better not be a crack about my weight."

"Never," he said, and the prickle that went down her spine at the heavy sincerity in his eyes was eerily similar to the prickle of hair follicles pushing their way back through her skin. She met his gaze for one long moment, long enough to see the fine-edged tension around his eyes, and then made herself step back and away.

Jake cleared his throat. "Why don't you two clear out of the kitchen and let me finish, huh?" he said. Peter shrugged easily.

"Sure. I need a shower anyway," he said. She looked sharply at him, but he wandered out without adding anything else, and she didn't have any proof, anyway, just theories. There were never any mysterious stains on his clothes, no smell of blood or other bodily fluids, he never has so much as a hair out of place, but she knew perfectly well that he didn't need to get within spatter distance to cause injury. His compulsive need to shower every time he came back from one of the little "trips" he took with her father and Claude to "visit old friends" could just be a weird coincidence, but she didn't think so.

"You too, Claire," Jake said, nudging at her pointedly. "Let a man concentrate, would you?"

"Man, hah," she sneered, but she left when he got a little too close with his doughy hands. She _liked_ this shirt.

She went into the living room and settled down with a magazine. Jake left about twenty minutes later, shouting back to tell Zach he'd see him tomorrow, and she'd grinned as she'd called back her affirmative. Ah, young love, she thought gleefully. She was _so_ going to catch those two making out in the shed sometime soon.

Peter came back down and found her in the living room about twenty minutes after that. He didn't look significantly different, but the tightness around his eyes was gone, and she thought about how there was no good reason for a guy with short hair like Peter's to stay in the shower for forty minutes, but she didn't say anything. It wasn't really her business.

"Whatcha readin'?" he asked.

She lifted up the magazine, silently. He grinned. "Only the highest of literature for you, huh?"

"This is Texas," she said. "Be grateful I'm not reading _Guns and Ammo._"

Peter just grinned at her and then flopped backwards onto the couch, his long legs hooking over the end. "Oof." The top of his head was only inches from her curled-up legs, looking severely out of place in the homey living room. Her father ruled over the study, dark wood and darker leather, a man's room, but this was her mother's domain, and she'd decorated it in frills and pastels, the same way she'd decorated and redecorated the living room in their old house. Claire had grown up in a room like this, and it was as familiar to her as her own too-pink bedroom. But Peter, with his dark clothing and complexion and the ragged scar running down his face that she still hadn't quite gotten used to, made her feel abruptly alien in this frilly, comfortable room. Looking at him, she was increasingly aware that all of the weirdness that had come before was nothing to the sea-change that Peter was capable of inflicting on her, whether she was ready or not.

"You look tired," she said critically. He often seemed like the Energizer Bunny- just going, and going, and _going_ until even Claude seemed ready to cry "Uncle!" (Okay, brain, she thought. You can stop helping. Any minute now.) Tonight, though, he was looking a little drawn around the edges, which was the same as limping exhaustion on anyone else.

"Claude ran me ragged," he said, his eyes closed and his face turned up to the cool breeze coming off the ceiling fan. "I thought it was bad when he was just beating me with sticks and calling me an idiot. If only I'd known how much worse it would be now that I'm apparently useful after all, I might have let myself stay blown up." His grin was silly and boyish, and she couldn't help but grin back, despite the pangs that the memory of That Night always seemed to bring back.

"So you're going after Company operatives, huh?" Unsubtle, maybe, abrupt subject-change, yes, but it worked. Peter's eyes snapped open and he gave her a sharp, upside-down stare. "How'd you-"

"Know? Funny how I'm not a complete idiot, isn't it?"

He smiled ruefully. "Yeah, trust me, I know. Your Dad's just a lot better at the whole, secret operations thing, I guess. I'm not exactly a brilliant liar."

And Claude wasn't much better, not that she'd say anything about it. She'd learned pretty quickly that insulting Claude just got Peter's back up, and that was exactly what she was trying to avoid. "So you're trying to dismantle the Company," she prompted again.

He huffed a laugh. "Yeah, I suppose you could put it that way. I never had any big master plan when I started this, you know. I just ran into a couple people who knew who I was and wanted to kill me pretty badly, and I stopped them. Then I found Claude and he was all for trying to turn some of the Operatives, so we did that instead. A few of them told me that there was someone working their way through the command-level guys, and I managed to put two and two together and figured out it was your father. So I came to help, however he needed me." His scar twisted strangely as he frowned- and she realized that she'd almost never seen him anything but smiling, not since he came back. It was a strange realization to make about someone as occasionally moody as Peter. "And that's what I do."

"So it's not just the operatives," she said. "Not if you're working for my Dad."

"_With_ your Dad. It's a small thing, but I wouldn't want to be you if Claude heard you saying he worked _for_ Bennet. They're not too fond of each other."

"Understatement," she said. It was like being in the middle of the Cold War, with the two of them, and Peter in the middle with Claire, doing his best to keep the peace. It was a little weird to live with sometimes. "Peter. Tell me seriously. Do you really think you can do it?"

"Take down the Company?" It must have been a rhetorical question, because Peter continued before she could answer in the affirmative. "I don't know. Maybe the Company really does need to exist, in one form or another- that's not my problem. We're trying to get to the head of it. Linderman used to run it, did you know?"

Claire hadn't known. "The mob boss from LA?"

"That's the one," Peter said. "He was working with my mother. They're the ones that got to Nathan. He wanted me to blow up, Claire. He wanted the explosion to happen, and he wanted to put Nathan into power. He had a vision of a whole new world, a world without sin." Peter sighed. She reached out automatically, touching his cheek, which was the closest part of him. He turned his face into her touch and smiled. "He's dead now, and I've been keeping an eye on Mom." Claire didn't even want to know how he was doing that, since he'd given every appearance of wanting to avoid New York. "The problem is that he had a silent partner, someone we didn't know about. If we can get to them, things might change. Do we need to take down the whole Company to do that? I sure as hell hope not."

Because his involvement in the process included a whole lot of pain and death, she inferred. Not for the first time, she wondered what had happened to Peter in the aftermath of his explosion. The Peter she'd known before could never kill, or torture, or whatever it was that made him feel so unclean. It couldn't have taken him that long to heal, not if he was like her, and from what she'd gotten from his story, he'd been on his own for a bit before he found Claude. What had he been doing all that time? Where had he gone, who had he met? Or had he just wandered on his own, alone and strange, untouched by the human race? The idea troubled her more than she liked to admit. Peter was so… open, except for the times when he shut down like Fort Knox. Peter needed people. How could he have gone so long without them?

She remembered Hiro Nakamura, who'd given Peter his ability to teleport, and could also travel in time. She had a terrible thought- just how long _had_ Peter been gone, anyway?

She thought that she might never know the truth of it, and that was- okay. Not great, because her curiosity would probably always burn a little higher than was really good for her, but okay. Peter was here now. That was what really mattered.

Peter made a sort of half-awake mumble, and she realized that they'd been sitting silently for a long time- and also that her hand, which had been cupping his scarred cheek, had slid up and was slowly stroking his hair. She snatched her hand back as soon as she realize what she was doing, staring at it in horror like it was some separate entity, instead of part of her. What was she _thinking_? Well, obviously she wasn't thinking at all, or she wouldn't be sitting here, petting her uncle as if he was Mr. Muggles.

"Mm, don't stop," he mumbled, sleepily. "Feels good."

She stared down at him for a long moment- the long lines of him sprawled out over the couch, his thin, smooth hands, which would never again bear a callous, curled over the black t-shirt covering his lean belly, the stubble that shadowed his jaw because he never seemed to remember to shave, the eyelids that were closed halfway, his long lashes obscuring his dark, intelligent eyes, the slick, ropy scar that ran between them, the dark curls of his hair, still wet from his shower, that had left damp traces on her palms and between her fingers.

Then she lifted her hand to his head once more, and started, carefully, to stroke.

He emitted some sort of pleased rumbling noise, like a great cat, and a smile spread slowly across her face.

 

MICHAEL DUPONT- NEW YORK CITY

 

He liked to look in the mirror. Sometimes he'd go into the bathroom and put his hands flat on the counter and lean forward and just _look._ He'd lean back a while later and his palms would be tingling and he'd go back into the living room and look automatically towards the clock on the wall and realize that he'd been looking for hours.

He liked his face. It was a familiar face, all smiles, harmless-looking. His mom used to say that he had a "sunshine face," because when he was happy he "just brought the sunshine in." But that was a long time ago, he thought. He'd grown up since then. His smiles were different now, and his mom didn't think he brought the sunshine with him anymore.

He had blue eyes, which he hadn't gotten from his mom. He imagined that his dad had blue eyes like this, but the mop of hair was all his, and the freckles. He still looked like a kid, he thought. Like he'd never grown out of kites and toy trucks.

He liked that. It made him look innocent, different from the faces that looked back at him while he slept. Dark eyes looking back at him in the mirror, always dark eyes, every night, no matter what the dream. Sometimes they were kind and smiled like he did, and sometimes they were cold and hard and scary, but they were always dark, dark brown, not like him. Not at all.

He saw them every night, every single night, and if he need to spend a little time in front of the mirror making sure that his eyes were still blue, well, there was no one around to be bothered but him.

 

NIKI SANDERS- NEW YORK CITY

 

When you were seeing sunrise from the wrong end for the third time in less than a week, it was probably a clue that there was some kind of problem.

Niki lay flat on her back, rhythmically raising and then lower the bar over her head. The air in the garage was cool, the predawn light filtering through the door dim enough that she cast no shadow. This wasn't the first morning she'd spent in the garage, but it was the first since moving to New York, and the first she'd spent lifting weights instead of taking off her clothes.

It was a different garage, all in all, a different situation. It was just that Niki wasn't so sure _she_ was all that different, and that was, most definitely, the problem.

Inside, she could dimly hear the sounds of D.L. waking up and starting his morning routine. Running water, the toilet flushing, the burble of a coffeepot. He wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed first thing in the morning, but eventually he was going to realize that she hadn't just stepped outside to pick up the paper and come looking for her.

Reluctantly, she laid the bar back into its rest and sat up. Only then did she notice that the weights had still been set for D.L.- which was about three times more than she'd ever been able to lift, before. And she'd been out here for- hours, probably, she wasn't sure how many.

Rolling her shoulders and flexing her biceps, she came to an obvious and unavoidable conclusion: she wasn't even tired. She felt as fresh and well-rested as if she'd spent the night snoozing in bed instead of pumping iron. She'd known she was strong; the holes she'd left in the wall _completely on accident_ would have proved it even if she'd doubted, but this was different. This was really accepting her power for the first time in her life.

And if that wasn't a scary thought, she didn't know what was. Because accepting her power meant accepting Jessica, meant accepting the fact that she hadn't gone away, she'd just merged with Niki like that poor doomed shrink had been trying to get her to do, and if Jessica was still there then so were all the problems and complications she'd always brought with her. Not the raging psychopath part, thank God, but all the other things, the more subtle things, emotions and prejudices and experiences she didn't remember having that colored every interaction she had.

Like, Jessica had loved Micah, loved him enough to surrender to Niki for keeps in that room with Linderman, but she _hated_ D.L., and him taking Micah away hadn't sweetened her temper any. Jessica hadn't hated all guys though, hadn't thought they were all dangerous, or pathetic losers to be led around by their dicks- she'd found time to like one guy, during the few short months she and Niki had battled for control of her body.

Which was why Niki was out here in her garage, courting insomnia yet again, listening to her husband make coffee in the kitchen and thinking about Nathan Petrelli. Because Nathan was just as much hers as Jessica's, and she really couldn't say the same thing about D.L.

 

MICAH SANDERS- NEW YORK CITY

 

Sometimes, usually about once a week, Dr. Suresh would show up with a big black bag of stuff that grumbled in Micah's ear every time he got close enough. He knew that there were chemicals in there, and needles and stuff, and that the grumbling things were little reader-type machines that went beep, but he didn't have enough medical know-how to get what they _did,_ no matter how hard they tried to explain it to him in their little high-pitched voices.

He did know, because Dr. Suresh had explained it to him, pretty patiently for a grown-up, that he was taking blood samples for a DNA analysis, furthering his study of the genetic marker that gave them all their abilities. Micah didn't know that much about how DNA worked- they didn't really start teaching that stuff until high school- but he watched CSI all the time, even if his Mom said it was too gory. He knew that everyone had different DNA, like a fingerprint, and that you got half your DNA from your Dad and half from your Mom. There was something else about dominant and recessive genes that Dr. Suresh had tried to explain to him with this little grid thing, but it didn't make a whole lot of sense.

All Micah knew was that both your parents had to have the marker for you to have powers, and no one seemed to have the _same_ power. So Dr. Suresh was always taking samples and running tests and talking about his "map" and how he was going to find more of them, and "advance human understanding of evolution by leaps and bounds."

Whatever.

Dr. Suresh always saved Molly for last, because he had to run other tests, to make sure that she wasn't getting sick again. Micah was all about Molly not being sick, but he didn't understand blood transfusions and genetic disorders any more than he understood how their powers worked. But he did know that Molly still hated needles, even though she should've been used to them by now, like the rest of them, and she hated even more having anyone _watch_ when the needles came out, so when it was her turn she and Dr. Suresh went into her room and shut the door.

Bored, Micah wandered over to his computer and logged on. Hana would be there, if she wasn't busy hacking the CIA or whatever it was she did for fun when _she_ got bored. When you didn't have a body to hold you back, she'd told him, you realized the internet wasn't really as big as all that. And she'd been stuck in there for months now.

_SAMANTHA48616e61_: Hey, kid.  
_MicahSanders500_: Hey.  
_SAMANTHA48616e61_: Molly with the doctor?

He slowly lifted his hands from the keyboard, staring at the words on the screen. That was… scary. Was she spying on him? She couldn't, could she? She'd told him that she could only look through security cameras and stuff, and they didn't have any of those in the house. And she couldn't talk to computers, not like he could; she just squatted on the servers. So how'd she…

_MicahSanders500_: Yes…  
_SAMANTHA48616e61_: *laughs* Relax, I'm not snooping. You're just that predictable.  
_MicahSanders500_: What does that mean?  
_SAMANTHA48616e61_: The doctor comes by every Sunday, and every Sunday he and Molly go into her room and you get online and talk to me. I could set my watch by you.  
_SAMANTHA48616e61_: You know, if I had a watch.

He frowned.

_MicahSanders500_: Not every week.  
_SAMANTHA48616e61_: Every week. Trust me, I'd remember. I've got a lot of memory these days.

He groaned. God, not puns. He'd thought his Dad was bad enough when it came to puns, but Hana, man, she took the cake. It was scary.

_MicahSanders500_: Ha. Ha. Ha.  
_SAMANTHA48616e61_: Sarcasm is the lowest form of humor.  
_MicahSanders500_: Puns are worse.

Through the wall, he heard Molly's voice rise, almost but not quite loud enough for him to hear what she said, and Dr. Suresh's voice soothing in return. Micah strained his ears, but the voices fell back to murmurs again, and he couldn't catch anything.

Technically, he could ask Molly's computer to see if it had heard anything, because Mom had gotten them both microphones for Christmas, so her computer could probably pick them up pretty easily, if they were on the right side of the room. But that would be… cheating, somehow, or at least misuse of his powers. Mom had been pretty adamant about misusing his powers, as soon as she'd figured out just what his powers _were._ According to her, messing with the vote had been misusing his powers- not like he hadn't known that, but jeez, what did she expect him to do? That creepy girl was freaking _strong_ for someone so skinny. He already tried to run away once, and that had _totally_ bombed, so what was he supposed to do?

"That's what being a grown-up means," she'd said. Lectured, kinda. "Knowing the right thing to do, and then doing it. You're the smartest little man in the world, remember? I know you can figure it out."

_Thanks, Mom,_ he'd thought. _That helps a *lot.*_

_MicahSanders500_: I think Molly's upset about something.  
_SAMANTHA48616e61_: Probably getting blood drawn. I used to hate it, too, and I was in and out of the Company labs practically every day. Your friend has it easy.  
_MicahSanders500_: Trust me, she doesn't have it *easy.* Her parents died, *she* almost died, and she had a serial killer looking to cut out her brain and *eat* it.

Sylar always had creeped him out. Thank God he was dead.

_SAMANTHA48616e61_: I was just joking, Micah.  
_MicahSanders500_: Yeah, well, maybe it's not so funny.  
_SAMANTHA48616e61_: And maybe you take things a little too personally where Molly is concerned.  
_MicahSanders500_: What's that supposed to mean?  
_SAMANTHA48616e61_: You don't exactly think about her like a sister.

He frowned at the screen again. His reply flowed into the chat window, faster than his fingers could move- in his temper, he'd accidentally attuned more to the computer than he'd meant, and it was picking up his reply straight from the source.

_MicahSanders500_: So what's wrong with that? She's *not* my sister.  
_SAMANTHA48616e61_: She's your adopted sister.  
_MicahSanders500_: Fostered.  
_SAMANTHA48616e61_: It's not a big difference, and you know it. I'm just saying that you might want to pay attention to what you're thinking, because growing up in close quarters like that- it might not end so well. Better get over your crush while you still can.  
_MicahSanders500_: I *don't* have a crush on her.  
_SAMANTHA48616e61_: If you say so.

He sat back and scowled. Talking to Hana was always like this. Sometimes she'd be on his side, telling him things he wanted to hear, and sometimes she'd smack him down like this, like he was some kind of _kid,_ but she was always giving advice.

Whether he wanted to hear it or not.

_MicahSanders500_: I don't want to talk about it.

Not that that'd ever stopped her.

_SAMANTHA48616e61_: Fine.

Well, that was easy.

_SAMANTHA48616e61_: That tracking program is still lurking. Are you sure it's one of yours? Because it seems to be sticking pretty close to you. And it's trying pretty hard not to let you see it.  
_MicahSanders500_: You sure?

Hana didn't usually make mistakes like that. If she said it was hanging around him, then it was, not following her like it was supposed to. Did the program get confused? He thought he'd been pretty clear.

_SAMANTHA48616e61_: Yes, I'm sure. It's lurking around almost every time you log on, like it's trying to monitor your conversation or something.  
_SAMANTHA48616e61_: Actually, it looks kind of familiar.  
_MicahSanders500_: Yeah?  
_SAMANTHA48616e61_: Yeah, I swear I've seen it before. The coding just looks like something I've seen before…  
_SAMANTHA48616e61_: Oh, hell, I remember now. It used to follow me everywhere, back when I was with the Com  
_SAMANTHA48616e61_: asdlkfho;jg  
_MicahSanders500_: Hana?

**_SAMANTHA48616e61_ has signed off.**

Micah tapped his fingers restlessly over the keys. That was… weird. He didn't think he'd ever seen her sign off before. An away message, sure, when she was off hacking or whatever, but sign off… No. How could she, when she was permanently jacked in?

Maybe it was a glitch, he thought. Squatted in the wrong server, got so caught up in the tracking program that she got caught and had to take off. She'd be back in a little while.

In the hall, he heard Molly's door open, so he signed off too and went to see what was going on. She'd sounded pretty upset in there, and not like she'd freaked out over needles. She might not tell him, but at least he could ask, right?

He was so preoccupied with Molly that by the time Dr. Suresh had left, he'd completely forgotten about Hana, about the tracking program, and about Hana's last words before she'd signed off.

 

MOHINDER SURESH- NEW YORK CITY

 

Mohinder carefully settled the slide into place and bent his head to the eyepiece, slowly clicking the magnification up one notch at a time. He held his breath as the image started to come clear to his fiercely squinting eye.

"Aren't you supposed to be home in bed?" a voice said in his ear.

Mohinder almost put his eye out on the microscope. "What on Earth are you- Oh, it's you."

Matt settled one hip against the desk and put two fingers against his temple, screwing up his face in mock concentration. "I think I'm getting something," he said. "Yes, that's definitely a thought coming through. You… You… You wish I'd walk a little louder." He opened his eyes and grinned. "Was I close?"

"Why, you must be psychic," Mohinder said dryly.

"It's the shoes. Cop shoes clomp." He nudged at Mohinder's leg with a sneaker-clad foot. "You get used to making noise whether you want to or not."

"Yes, well, it's something to keep in mind." He glanced at the clock- after midnight. "What are you doing here so late?"

"What am I ever doing here late? I'm rousting you and sending you home. At least you seem to know what time it is, which begs the question."

Mohinder waited, but when nothing more was forthcoming, he said, "Yes?"

"If you know what time it is, then what the hell are you still doing here?"

All of his earlier excitement came back at Matt's question. "I've been comparing the latest round of blood samples I took from the Sanders family," he said. "And I believe I'm beginning to understand how some of their abilities work."

"Seriously? Hey, that's great." Matt's grin was as open and happy as the sunrise. "What'd you find?"

"Out of the four of them, three emit a sort of low-level energy field. The only one who _doesn't_ have it is Niki."

"And what does that mean?"

"That her power is internal," Mohinder said. "It's not something that effects the outside world, only her body. I've taken samples of skin, muscle, and bone, and all none of it conforms to accepted norms. Her bones are far denser than they should for her size, her skin is tougher and less inclined to break or bruise- why, it's almost closer to animal hide than human skin, though the texture remains the same. Her muscles, of course, while visually no different, have somehow been altered to carry more weight- not only to compensate for the increased bone density, as we might see in someone else, but much father than that."

"Enough to swing around parking meters and kick holes in the wall," Matt said.

"Yes, exactly." Mohinder sighed and leaned back in his chair. "I only wish that Claire Bennet hadn't gone back to Texas. Her father wouldn't let me near the girl, and she's the only other one whose abilities should work on an internal frame as Niki's do. Everyone else I know would have to utilize some sort of energy field to create the effect that their powers would have."

Matt tilted his head. "How does that even _work,_ anyway?"

"I'm not entirely sure," Mohinder admitted. "This isn't exactly a well-researched field of science, here. I'm essentially making it up as I go along." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "But the best explanation I have is that most other abilities are _external_\- effecting things outside of the person's body. D.L. walks through other objects- how he does this, I haven't yet the faintest clue, but somehow he uses the energy field to manipulate matter, either in his own body or that of the thing he's phasing through. Micah literally connects with mechanical objects- communicates with them, even. Nathan Petrelli defies the laws of gravity and levitates, not just upwards but directionally, which is how he can fly. Molly uses a type of telepathy- nothing as strong as your own, but instead of picking up localized thoughts, she can search out and identify certain mental signatures, anywhere in the globe." He grimaced. "That's why I believe that Peter Petrelli is dead. If he were alive, Molly should be able to pick him up. He had one of the most distinctive abilities I've ever seen; it stands to reason that his mental signature would be the same."

"Don't let Nathan Petrelli hear you say that," Matt advised. "You know he still asks Molly every chance he gets. He hasn't given up."

"I know. Believe me, I know. I've been very careful what I say to him about the matter."

"Good," Matt said. "The man's got a temper. I'd hate to lose you."

Inexplicably, Mohinder blushed.

Matt laughed, kindly, and flicked one finger against his cheek. "I've never seen you blush before," he said. "It's kinda cute."

Mohinder made himself lean away before he did something unforgivably stupid. "It is not _cute,_" he said with asperity. "Grown men are not _cute._"

"If you say so." Matt dropped his hand, but he didn't lean away. "So you've made a breakthrough. That's cause for celebration, right?"

Mohinder absolutely refused to blush again. That would just be adding insult to injury. "As you said, it's after midnight," he said steadily. "And the idea of going to a bar appeals to me very little. What, exactly, did you have in mind?"

"I've got a six-pack in the car," Matt said. "We can head back to your place and raise a few in honor of your accomplishment."

"I still remember the hangover from last time," Mohinder said. "Vividly."

"It won't be like last time," Matt said, and unbidden, a little shiver ran down his spine.

"Is that right."

"Yeah," Matt said. "It is." He smiled, but it wasn't the open, sunny smile that Mohinder was used to. This was more intent. "So. You in or out?"

"I'm in," Mohinder said, before he could talk himself out of it. "Just let me put everything away."

Matt leaned away, finally, and gave an expansive shrug. "I've got time."

Mohinder quickly gathered the notes and printouts that were strewn over his desk and sorted them with efficient hands, filing them away in the appropriate places. That finished, he pulled out the slide and tucked it away in the box with all the others.

"Whose is that?" Matt said, nodding towards the box.

Mohinder had forgotten what he'd been looking at when Matt came in. "It's yours, actually."

Matt went very still. "Really? What'd it tell you?"

"It's very strange, actually," Mohinder said, locking his desk drawers and pocketing the key. "You'd think that your power would need to work on an energy field, just as Molly's does, but as far as I can see it seems to have an internal effect rather than external. The molecular structure is one of the most orderly I've ever seen in my life."

"That is strange," Matt said. His voice seemed kind of flat, and Mohinder smiled at him as he pulled his coat off the hook.

"It is, yes. Don't worry, though. I'll figure it out in the end."

"I'm sure you will." Matt took a step back. "You know what? How about we postpone this celebration till tomorrow. You're right, it's kind of late, and I have to be up early tomorrow."

Mohinder blinked, surprised and not a little hurt. He'd thought… Well. No matter. It was foolishness anyway, and he'd known it. "I understand," he said stiffly. "You'd best be off."

"Right." Matt took another step back, paused, and clenched his hands in the fabric around his coat pockets. Then, without another word, he turned and walked out of the office.

Mohinder took his time turning off the lights and locking up, so as not to be caught in the same elevator on the way out. He couldn't think of anything worse than being trapped in a small, enclosed space with Matt just now.

He had no idea what had happened just then, but whatever it was, it had happened just in time. He'd nearly done something extremely foolish. Matt had saved him from something he'd regret.

That didn't explain why he felt so hurt.

 

CLAIRE BENNET- ODESSA, TEXAS

 

Sometimes, whenever one or both of them was feeling especially annoyed and/or homicidal towards the other, Peter and Claude went out to the backyard to "train."

She used the air quotes because she was pretty sure that their little grudge matches had very little to do with actual training, and a lot more to do with beating each other bloody for the hell of it. Claude was more comfortable with his powers than anyone she'd met, and he wielded any kind of weapon- gun, knife, great big stick, you name it- with equal comfort. Peter, likewise, needed about as much training with his powers as a fish needed to be taught how to swim, and he _was_ a weapon. So she was pretty sure they were just doing it for fun, and maybe a little as a way to keep themselves from actually killing each other.

She really didn't understand them. The relationship they had just… honestly did not make sense to her, no matter how much she thought about it. Claude was theoretically Peter's teacher, but again, Peter didn't really need much teaching these days. Claude was charming and antisocial by dizzyingly quick turns, and the only one who seemed to be able to keep up with his mood swings was Peter. Peter would withdraw sometimes, into some black place in his head, and Claude was the only one who could pull him out. Claude had almost come to blows with her Dad a couple times in the last month, and Peter would suddenly be there at his elbow, calling him off with a word. They argued constantly, sometimes about the stupidest things, and she'd been afraid on more than one occasion that they would actually do each other serious harm, but they never quite tripped over the line. One of them would suddenly stop, get this strange smile on his face, and jerk his head towards the door, and the other would mirror back his smile and they'd both go outside.

She couldn't figure them out. But that didn't mean that she'd stopped trying.

She liked to watch them sparring, because they were unguarded then in a way that they never were otherwise. If it was one of those days when they were inclined to explosion, they usually ended up losing their tempers around late afternoon, which was when she was home from school. She was home a lot more often these days- sticking close to her family, some, but also for the much simpler reason of not being welcome at cheerleader practice anymore. Not that she wanted to go and spend time with those shallow, brainless sluts, but… Yeah.

They were both wearing coats today, wrapped up against the chilly February afternoon. Even Texas got cold sometimes. Not often. But sometimes.

Peter's coat was black (of course) with a round, high-necked collar that fell down to his thighs. He didn't bother to button it- him and his freakishly high metabolism- and as a result he looked more like a fashion model on the runway than someone trying to ward off the cold. Or maybe like something out of _The Matrix._

She couldn't see what Claude was wearing, because he was invisible. The strangeness of the scene abruptly struck her: Peter with his GQ good lucks and fashion sense, battling it out with what looked like thin air. Every once and a while Claude would land a blow, and a bruise or cut would bloom across Peter's face and then disappear.

If anyone else were seeing this, she thought, they'd think they were crazy. Sometimes she wasn't so sure that she _wasn't_ crazy, that she hadn't hit her head months ago when she'd stumbled down the back steps at their old house. She'd broken her arm, and it had healed, and it had been the first time she'd realized just how much a freak she really was. What if everything from that moment on was just one long, strange hallucination?

No. She watched too much TV. Her life was too weird to be anything but the truth. Her powers, maybe she could come up with that on her own- what teenager doesn't want to be invincible, right?- but the rest of it- no. No. Her real father was a Congressman who could fly, and her mother was a con artist who set things on fire? She was saved from a super-powered serial killer by a cute guy that she crushed on who turned out to be her uncle who died and came back and brought along a strange, misanthropic invisible man who used to be her father's partner at a secret government organization created to deal with people like her?

No one could make this stuff up.

Out in the yard, Claude shimmered back into visibility. He leaned forward, sneering, saying something undoubtedly clever and biting. Peter just smirked and winked out- but Claude reached out and snagged his shoulder, and he blurred back into sight. Claude said something else, not letting go of his shoulder- Peter leaned forward, intent- Wow, they were getting _really_ into each other's personal space- Claude looked like he was about to _kill_ Peter-

And then Peter leaned up and slowly, deliberately, bit Claude's lower lip.

It was a move so unmistakably sexual that even Claire couldn't deny it. She jerked away from the window, her cheeks burning, but she still saw Claude stand there and- do nothing. Peter rocked back onto his heels, looking unbearably pleased with himself, and Claude- Claude-

Claude smiled.

It couldn't be. It _couldn't be._

But it was.

Claire whirled away and ran, away from the window, back to her room and safety where her world made sense. She didn't want to think about this. She didn't want this to have happened at all, she didn't want to know, but more than anything, she didn't want to think about it. She just wanted to curl up into a ball and pretend that the outside world didn't exist.

She didn't look back, so she didn't see Claude staring at the spot so recently vacated, and she didn't see Peter, running to the door to follow her.


	4. Chapter 4

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[anatomy series](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/anatomy+series), [big boom](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/big+boom), [fic](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/fic), [heroes](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/heroes), [het](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/het), [peter/claire](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/peter/claire), [peter/claude](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/peter/claude), [slash](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/slash)  
  
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NATHAN PETRELLI- PETRELLI MANSION, NEW YORK CITY

 

"Nathan," his wife told him, "I want to talk to you."

He froze in place, caught in the middle of trying to escape quietly up the back steps. "I'm really tired, Heidi," he said, wondering if he could talk his way out of this. "It's been a long day."

"This won't take long," she said, steel in her voice, and he acquiesced with a sigh and followed her into the sitting room, leaving his briefcase sitting in the doorway. To his fanciful, overtired mind, it seemed like marking his escape route.

She waited until he was sitting on the uncomfortably hard loveseat and then said, without preamble, "I want you to talk to Simon."

He arched an eyebrow. "He's not old enough for that just yet, Heidi."

"Not about sex. For Christ's sake, Nathan."

"Well, your 'talk' seemed to have a capital 't' just there, so I think I can forgiven for the mistake. What _do_ you want me to talk to him about, then?"

"He's at an important age, Nathan," she said. "He needs to be forming alliances, making the right sort of friends."

He looked at her with fond exasperation. "He's _nine._"

"Don't tell me that you weren't playing politics at his age, because I won't believe it."

"Yeah, and look how I turned out. I'm not trying to make Simon grow up to be President, Heidi. Or Monty either, for that matter. I think they've got a little time before I need to start putting on the thumb screws."

"Would you stop cracking jokes and just listen to me for a minute?"

Immediately he made himself look serious, as serious as she apparently was. "I'm listening."

"Simon's at a delicate age. He's just starting to grow out of some of his more childish impulses, and the choices he makes now are going to be the choices he makes for the rest of his life. He needs a firm hand to guide him and make sure that those choices are the right ones, to ensure his future. He needs his father to be there for him, Nathan. And you need to lead by example, because he hero-worships you and you know it."

To be honest, Nathan had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. "What about Monty? Aren't you going to give me the speech about what he needs?"

She sniffed, delicately. "Monty's a good boy," she said. "He does what he should and doesn't let Simon's problems tie him down. It's Simon I'm worried about."

Privately, Nathan made a note to have a talk with Monty, because he really didn't want either of his sons to grow up to be like him, tripping up their brother just so they could push ahead in line. "Then I'll talk to Simon," he lied. "In fact, I'll go talk to him right now."

"Annie's giving them their baths," she said.

"Then I'll read to them once they're in bed," he said. He stood and made himself cross the room to her and kiss her on the cheek. "Goodnight, Heidi."

She didn't move. "Goodnight, Nathan."

He forgot his briefcase on the way out.

Annie had finished with the baths by the time he got upstairs, and had already gotten the boys into their pajamas. Monty was in bed with his handheld when Nathan looked in to say goodnight, and Nathan decided to put off the "talk" because with that thing in reach, Monty wasn't going to pay a damn bit of attention anyway. When he got to Simon's room, though, his younger boy wasn't in bed, waiting for a kiss or a goodnight story.

He was standing in the middle of his room, looking scared and determined, his little chin up in the air in a way that was disturbingly reminiscent of Peter with a confession to make.

"Dad?" Simon said, his eyes wide and dark. Nathan instinctively crouched down, trying to get closer to his level. Simon couldn't have done anything that wrong, not bad enough to put that look on his face. He was just a kid.

"Yeah, what is it?" _Is this what Heidi was really talking about?_

"I've got something I need to show you."

 

CLAIRE BENNET- ODESSA, TEXAS

 

She didn't look up when he came to stand in her doorway. She hadn't known he was following her, hadn't heard him coming up the steps- he could be cat-quiet when he wanted, a learned side effect of invisibility- but as soon as she'd felt the little puff of displaced air that said _person in the doorway,_ she knew it was him. It was inevitable, right? Like a scene out of a cheap romantic comedy.

"Claire," he said.

"Why didn't you _tell_ me," she said, almost despairing. "God. Was it all some huge joke? Let's laugh at Claire, the poor idiot girl who couldn't see what was going on right under her _nose?_"

"God, Claire, no." He came over to stand next to her, and she finally looked up at him through tear-blurry eyes. He looked alien, completely out of context in her happy pink bedroom. Like he didn't belong in her life at all. "It wasn't like that. I just… couldn't figure out how to say it."

"I guess," she said grudgingly. "But… _Claude,_ Peter? Sometimes I think you two don't even _like_ each other, how could you possibly be…" Dating? Fucking? Performing an ancient rite of mating? She bit her lip to stifle a semi-hysterical giggle. "Together. Like that."

"There's more than meets the eye," he said. That bit of cliché-on-a-stick was almost enough to make her smack him, but not quite.

"Yeah, I got that, thanks. I was actually hoping you could tell me something that _meant_ anything." God. Did it have to be _Claude?_ It wasn't that she disliked him, exactly. More that he didn't seem to care overmuch that she existed in the same universe as he, much less the same house.

Peter looked at her for a long moment, then said, "He saved my life, Claire."

"You?" She hadn't meant to sound _quite_ so scornful, but the idea of Peter needing saving was a little ridiculous.

"Before the explosion," Peter said. "He taught me how to control my powers, back when I was losing it all over the place. I doubt I would have lasted long enough to face Sylar if he hadn't beaten control into me, literally." He sighed and sat down next to her on the bed. "So yeah. He saved my life."

"So this is, what? Gratitude?" She knew she was acting like a brat. She was just too hurt and angry to care.

"It's not like that and you know it."

"So what _is_ it like?" she cried, losing patience fast. "Explain this to me, Peter, because I'm just not getting it and if I'm going to get my heart broken, I'd at least like to know _why._"

He gave her a surprised look, but she thrust her jaw forward stubbornly. She wasn't sorry she said it. It wasn't like he hadn't known- Jesus, she wasn't exactly subtle, he _had_ to have known.

"I suppose it's because I need him just as much as he needs me."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" she said, exasperated. _This_ was what Peter considered an explanation?

"Look, it's like this," he said. "I like taking care of people. I didn't spend all those years training to be a nurse just to spite my brother, no matter what Nathan likes to think. I became a nurse because I knew it's what I was best suited to doing. I don't want to take over the world, Claire, or even a little corner of Manhattan. I'm not my brother, and I'm not a superhero."

"Could've fooled me," she said.

"Won't catch me _dead_ in tights," he teased. "But seriously, that's not me. Anything I do, I do it because I'm looking out for the people I care about. And don't give me that look. That includes you. You know it does."

"I know," she whispered. She might've pretended otherwise, once or twice in the privacy of her own head, but she'd never gotten far. She knew he cared about her. She didn't need him to tell her that.

"But here's the thing. Forget the fact that I'm your uncle, or the fact that you're underage. You've got a year till eighteen and neither of us is going anywhere anytime soon and given enough time we'll find a way to rationalize it, make it okay and it's not. We both know that part already. That's not the biggest thing."

She didn't say anything.

"I need to take care of people," he said. "And Claude needs to be needed. We need _each other._ And I can't say that about you and me. I may need you, but you don't need me."

"That's not true!" she burst out. "How could you even think-"

"You don't," he said, gently, but very firmly. "Love isn't need, though sometimes they happen at the same time. You love me, I'm family and I saved your life and I like to think my charming personality had something to do with it too, but you don't need me. You're a whole and healthy human being, all on your own."

She opened her mouth to reply, and then closed it, reconsidering. Hadn't she been thinking, just ten minutes ago, that she didn't get the two of them? She'd wished for understanding, and here he was explaining it to her. The least she could do was think about it. Peter sat there silently, waiting with all visible patience for her to reach her conclusion.

And the more she thought about it, the more it fit in with everything she'd already noticed about them. Claude was… broken, she thought. She knew a little of his history with her Dad, and she could make a few good guesses about what he went through, during all those years he had to hide. He lived his life inside-out, mercurial and strange, and only Peter got close because Peter needed him.

And Peter- how could she have missed it, she'd known he came back different but it hadn't clicked for her, the way he lurked close to her whenever he was in the house. She'd just been pleased that he wanted to spend so much time with her and she hadn't bothered to think about _why._ Or the faraway look he got in his eyes sometimes- not like he was remembering things, or stuck in the past or whatever weird romance-novel cliché she'd used to explain it, but actually reading someone else's thoughts- hers, or Claude's probably. Peter was _incredibly_ codependent, she'd seen it with some of her friends' high-school boyfriends but she hadn't recognized it in Peter. Of course Peter would attach himself to someone who needed people as desperately as he did. In their own fucked-up way, it was probably a match made in heaven.

"So what do you want from me?" she said finally. He opened his mouth, and she added, "_Seriously,_ Peter. This is cards-on-the-table time, right?"

His smile was almost… respectful, in a way she'd never seen from him. "I don't know, exactly."

"Peter."

"It's complicated, alright?"

She was uncompromising. "Uncomplicate it for me."

"I… need to be close." He twitched, as if he was only getting the words out by force. "I need to be there for you. To make sure you're okay. Kind of all the time."

He needed from her all the things he got from Claude, she thought. But he wouldn't allow her to take anything else in return, because she didn't _need_ him on a deep enough level for him. He'd spend the rest of her life like this, oh-so-close but not close enough, not all the way. He'd take what he needed and go on his merry way, leaving her to get her needs filled somewhere else. If she said yes right now, she was probably dooming herself to an entire lifetime of being never- quite- happy.

"But I know that's totally unfair, and I really shouldn't ask it of you, but I just-"

"Okay," she said. He blinked.

"Okay?"

"Okay," she repeated. "You- whatever, you need from me, Peter. I promise."

The look in his dark eyes was so intense that she shivered. "Promise," he said, slowly. "You're sure?"

"Yeah. I'm sure." She tucked her legs up to her chest and folded her arms around her knees. "You have my promise."

His shyly blooming smile was one of the most beautiful things she'd ever seen. "Okay," he said.

"And now," she said steadily, "if you don't mind, I think I need a little time to myself."

His smile faded a little bit, but not all the way. "I understand," he said.

He really didn't.

"I'll get out of your way," he said. "I just…" He stood up and looked at her, hands thrust into his pockets. "Thank you," he said, finally, then turned and walked out of her room.

She rested her chin on her knees, and did her level best not to feel anything at all.

 

NATHAN PETRELLI- PETRELLI MANSION, NEW YORK CITY

 

There was a long, suspended moment where he just stared at his son. He wanted to laugh, or make a smart remark, anything to lessen the tension that was ratcheting ever higher in the room. But this was Simon. Monty, now, with Monty he would have laughed, because Monty would fake a problem in a heartbeat if he thought he could get something out of it, but Simon wasn't like that, and Nathan needed to take this seriously, no matter how childish it might seem to him.

"It's okay, Simon," he said. "Just tell me what's wrong."

"You're going to get _mad,_" Simon said, with all the grim despair he could muster in his little-boy voice. Nathan wanted to smile, but he knew this wasn't a smiling matter.

"I promise I won't get mad." Simon gave him a speaking look that he'd learned right at his mother's knee, and the urge to smile got even stronger. Nathan's lips didn't even twitch, though. He had an _excellent_ poker face, and the fact that Peter used to- that Peter always saw right through it was just a sibling-related fluke. "Well, I promise not to shout too much, anyway."

Simon gave a serious nod, as if to say that this was acceptable, and then took a step back, into the clear middle part of the room. Nathan instinctively leaned away, not sure what was about to happen but worried nonetheless-

-and a pair of wings exploded from his son's back.

"What the _hell,_" he said blankly.

"I _told_ you you'd get mad," Simon said tearfully. Nathan immediately forced himself out of shock, told himself to stop behaving like a jackass in front of his youngest, and reached out, gripping one skinny shoulder firmly and bending his head till he could look Simon in the eye.

"I'm not mad, Simon. I'm just a little… surprised, is all." Understatement of the _millennium._

"I'm a _freak,_" Simon said. He shuddered all over, and the wings folded back into nothingness. "No _other_ kids do stuff like this. I'm _never going to have any friends._"

This must seem like the end of the world to him, Nathan thought. It had seemed like the end of the world to him, and he'd been an adult when he first flew. "I can personally guarantee that at least two other kids can do stuff like you," Nathan said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he said, smiling. "Micah talks to computers. Molly can find people."

"Oh, _Dad,"_ Simon said. "That's not like this."

"Ah, but it is," Nathan said. "Besides, Micah's Dad can walk through walls, and his mom has super-strength." Inwardly, he cringed at the use of comic-book term, but they hadn't yet figured out anything else that fit. "I know lots of people like you." Jesus, Nathan, just tell the kid the truth: he came by his freak gene honestly. Only don't phrase it like that.

"So can you just do wings?" he asked instead, fighting the urge to find a wall and slam his head against it. "Or can you do other stuff too?"

Simon brightened at the idea of someone being interested in his talent. "Not just wings," he confirmed. "Watch this." He held his hands out, fingers spread wide, and a second later they- melted. There was no other word for it. The clear and concise outline of his fingers and palms blurred away into a flesh-colored haze, then resolved again a moment later into a pair of huge, grotesque lobster claws.

Nathan said, "I've got to tell Annie to stop letting you watch Discovery Channel," which was the first thing that came to mind. "Put those things away."

Simon pouted, but a moment later his hands were hands again. "You said you knew a lot of people like me," Simon said. "Like who?"

Nathan wished desperately that someone, anyone else was having this conversation. "Like me," he finally forced himself to say. "I can fly."

Simon was _delighted_ to receive this news. "Seriously?" he said. "Show me!"

Well, okay, that was simple enough. "Hang on a second, let me get into launch position." He unfolded himself from his kneeling position, knees creaking (not as young as he used to be) and, after a moment of concentration, started to hover. He'd never really done this just for the hell of it; every time he'd flown it'd been because he _needed_ to, not because he wanted to. It was surprisingly easy once he just decided to do it.

Once his feet were about eight inches off the ground, he grinned down at his son. "So?" he asked.

"_Cool,"_ Simon breathed.

Suddenly, intensely, Nathan wished that Claire were here. He hadn't yet told Heidi, or the kids, that he had a daughter, and not just because he knew that Claire wanted nothing to do with him. He'd avoided talking about it because talking about Claire meant talking about all the other strange and bizarre things that had happened to him in the last six months, all of the people and abilities and how close New York had come to being blown up. He didn't want to talk about it to Heidi because then it would be real. Even after everything, it seemed he still hadn't accepted the truth.

But of course it _was_ real, and here was the incontrovertible truth, right here in front of him. His youngest son could change shapes, Nathan could fly, his brother could do _everything_, apparently- and would again once Nathan finally found him- and his daughter could heal herself.

To hell with this, he thought. I'm going down to Texas to find her. I'm going to be a father whether she wants another one or not.

He got Simon calmed down and into bed, and after waiting around for him to fall asleep- it only took a few minutes, poor kid had worn himself out- he went downstairs to tell Heidi. He was going to do this right, this time. He was going to take responsibility, and that started with telling his wife.

Except she wasn't there. He searched the mansion, but he couldn't find her.

She'd disappeared.

 

MICAH SANDERS- COLDWOOD ACADEMY, NEW YORK CITY

 

"It's cold," Molly grumbled. She was sitting on the stone steps in front of their school, waiting to get picked up.

"Dad'll be here soon," Micah told her. The truth was, he was pretty cold too, not that he was going to admit it to a _girl._ A man had to have some pride, that's what his Dad always said. So if he kept standing in order to keep his butt from freezing against the ice-cold stone, well, no one had to know why but him. "Just as soon as he gets the car started."

"So, never," she said with gloomy certainty. "Can't you talk to it?"

"It's too old," he admitted. "Newer cars have a computer built in, but Dad's is just a plain engine, and it can't hear me."

"So basically, we're depending on the guys at the garage for our ride home." She let her head fall dramatically backwards. "We're doomed."

Micah wanted to argue- those guys were Dad's friends- but it was pretty much true. "Maybe Mr. Petrelli can come and pick us up," he said, without much hope.

"The driver came by and picked up Simon and Monty half an hour ago," Molly pointed out. "You know what that means."

"He's working late, yeah, I know." Micah gave up on standing and flopped down next to Molly, his arm brushing against hers. "So… I Spy?"

"I Spy, with my little eye, something beginning with a 'C,'" she intoned.

"Car," he fired back, disappointed.

"This is going to be a short game," she said.

"Okay, fine. Maybe you want to talk about why you were so upset last time Dr. Suresh came over, instead." He'd asked what was wrong, but she hadn't said anything, and Dr. Suresh had had that pinched-up expression grownups got when kids didn't tell them what they wanted to know.

"It's nothing," she said, which was a sure sign that it was something. Molly got upset about things that _didn't_ matter. "It's not a big deal."

"You were really crying, Molly. What happened?"

"IthinkI'mgoingcrazy," she said all in a rush.

He paused a second to decipher that into plain English, and then looked at her sharply. "Why do you say that?" he said carefully. If anyone had reason to go crazy, it was Molly, but he'd always thought that she was pretty normal, for a girl.

"I keep feeling like someone's following me," she said.

"Did you tell Mom?" he said immediately.

"No way! They'll just send me off to a shrink or something. I don't want to 'talk' to somebody, I just want to stop freaking out."

"Yeah, but what if you're not imagining things? Mom and Dad should know." He thought back, with a shiver, to waking up in that hotel room and realizing that the woman in front of him looked like his Mom, but wasn't his Mom, wasn't even Jessica, but was someone else entirely. "It's not like it'd be the first time."

Her eyes widened with horror as she looked over at him. "Like the Boogey Man?"

_Oops._ "No, the Boogey Man is gone," he assured her, as quickly as he could get the words out. "I meant more like people who want to use our powers and stuff. Like how that lady wanted me to change the election."

"Oh." She relaxed a little, but not very much. "So you think that someone might really be following me?"

"Maybe," he said. "We're telling Dad, okay? As soon as he gets here."

She looked scared, but mutinous. "What if he doesn't believe me?"

"Trust me," Micah said, "He'll believe you."

He was suddenly reminded of Hana, of the tracking program she'd said was following him. _She didn't make mistakes like that,_ he remembered thinking, and he'd been right. The tracking program wasn't the one he'd set to follow her- or if it was, someone had reprogrammed it. The tracking program was following him, the same way someone was following Molly. Someone was after them.

_…back when I was with the Com-_

The Company. She was talking about the Company. He didn't know much about it, but Dr. Suresh had explained a few things, and Officer Parkman had warned them, but they'd never run into anybody, nobody had ever come after them…

Until now.

He grabbed Molly's arm, gripping a little too hard in his panic. "Why don't we wait inside," he said.

She looked very young as she said, "Micah, what's going on?"

She was depending on him to take care of her, but it was too late. The taser was already firing. And Micah wasn't his Dad, he couldn't phase through it, and he couldn't protect Molly at all. He was too late, and they were both in big, big trouble.

The world went black.

 

NIKI SANDERS- NEW YORK CITY

 

The moment D.L. walked in the door and shut it behind him, no two small children in tow, Niki knew.

"They weren't there," D.L. said grimly. "I talked to their teacher, he said they'd still been waiting on the steps last he checked, which was five minutes before I got there."

"Someone took them," she said. Not again. God, not again, she can't do this again-

"We don't know that," he said. "They could have wandered off. They could have gotten a ride home with someone and they just haven't gotten here yet." He didn't look like he believed it much either.

"Micah wouldn't just _wander off,_ not even if Molly would let him," she said fiercely. "They're _gone,_ D, someone took them. Someone took my babies."

"You're right," he said heavily. "_Fuck,_ I know you're right, I just-" He stopped. "Last time we knew who took him, Nik. But Linderman's dead. How the hell are we supposed to get them back now?"

"I don't know," she said. "But we've got help this time, okay? It's not just us." She reached for the counter and picked up the phone. "I'm gonna call Mohinder."

"Well, he better fucking pick up," D.L. growled as the phone trilled in her ear. "This is not the time for him to be locked up in his lab."

The phone clicked. "Hello?" said Mohinder, sounding vaguely sleepy. "Niki?"

"Micah and Molly are gone," she said.

"Gone?" he asked, sounding suddenly more alert. "What do you mean, _gone?_"

"I mean kidnapped," she said. "Mohinder, please, you've got to help us."

"I'll call Matt, he's a policeman, he might be able to help," Mohinder said. "It'll be okay, Nikki," he said, sounding more confident than he probably felt. "We'll get them back."

"We'd better," she said, and hung up the phone. "He's calling Parkman," she told D.L.

"Good," he said. "Maybe the cops can make themselves useful for once." He started towards the back of the house.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to see if there's any surveillance on our house," he called over his shoulder, and disappeared through the back wall.

Left alone in the kitchen, Niki stood with her hand trembling over the phone, knowing that there was only one other thing that she could do. D.L. wouldn't like it, but she was just about past caring what D.L. would or wouldn't like.

She picked up the phone and dialed.

Nathan answered on the first ring, brusque and impersonal. "Petrelli," he said shortly.

"Someone took my kids," she blurted, then held her breath, waiting. She knew he wouldn't but somehow, she was terrified that he'd hang up on her- they were past that, it wasn't like that anymore, but she was still so, so scared that he wouldn't care enough to-

"I'll be there in two minutes," he said, and the phone crashed down on the hook.

Gingerly, she hung up the phone on her own end, then just stood and breathed, one hand pressed to her chest to keep from sobbing with relief. Nathan was coming. Nathan was coming, and he'd make everything all right.

 

MOHINDER SURESH- NEW YORK CITY

 

Matt didn't answer. _Of course he won't answer, that just makes this evening perfect,_ Mohinder thought. He sat for a moment, not entirely sure what to do, then took a chance and called the local police station. Perhaps Matt was still out on call, and they would be able to reach him.

"Hello," he said, when the lady answered. "My name is Mohinder Suresh. I'm trying to reach an officer Matthew Parkman? He's not answering his cell, and I thought that he might still be out on patrol. Is there any way that you could reach him for me?"

"Sir, that's not really my job," she said gently.

"It's something of a family emergency." Molly wasn't _technically_ Matt's family, but then again, she wasn't technically Mohinder's either. It was close enough.

"Alright, well, I'll try," she said. "If you'll just hold on for a minute," and before he could answer in the affirmative there was a beep and then the incredibly awful hold music that seemed to be universal.

She came back a minute later, sounding worried. "Sir, there's no Officer Parkman working in this state," she said. "There was an Officer Parkman who worked in Los Angeles, but he went missing a month ago and his body turned up in the Manhattan Morgue. He's buried out in LA, if you want I can find you the graveyard information-"

He clicked the phone off, then pressed it to his pounding heart. He started dialing again immediately, Matt's cell phone number again, praying that he'd answer, that he'd have an explanation. Because he was thinking something so terrible, so impossible and _wrong,_ that he hoped like hell that Matt would pick up the damn phone and tell him that none of it was true.

 

MICHAEL DUPONT- NEW YORK CITY

 

Distantly, Michael heard the phone ringing. He knew he should pick it up- it was Mohinder, it was _important-_ but he couldn't move. His hand was moving busily over the page, his eyes wide-open and distant, as all the possible futures came together into one, shining truth that exploded from his hand onto the page:

The man in blue was coming. He was finally coming home, and things were going to change.

 

CLAUDE RAINES- ODESSA, TEXAS

 

That old adage about eavesdroppers not hearing anything good of themselves still held true, Claude thought.

_Claude needs to be needed._

Trust Peter to boil it down like that, he grumbled, almost amused. To take years of isolation and betrayal and a complete inability to connect to another human being in any way that meant anything and cut it down to one single, devastatingly accurate sentence.

He was surprised at the level of self-awareness that Peter seemed to have, though. Claude wouldn't have thought that Peter understood just how fully fucked-up he was, but apparently Peter knew full well- he just didn't care. He accepted his problems as just another quirk of his makeup and went on like nothing was wrong.

He had to get that from his brother, Claude thought. That blithe acceptance that hey, I'm not a good person and that's okay as long as I mostly don't screw with other people, because Nathan Petrelli seemed to have that in spades. Not that Claude had met him. Not that he'd had to. It was all right there in that smug, deceptively open grin that had been plastered all over New York. Claude understood the Petrelli family from the distance, which was where he liked to keep them, mostly. Peter was the exception. Then again, Peter seemed to be the exception to all of Claude's rules. He still wasn't sure how he felt about that, but he'd figure it out eventually.

"So Claire seemed to handle that pretty well," Claude opened. The two of them were in the backyard again, technically for a sparring session, but they'd both known it was more of a gossip session. (Not that Claude ever used that word, not unless he was being sarcastic. There were some aspects of humanity that just creeped him right out.)

"She's a tough girl," Peter said. Almost lazily, he ducked away from the swing Claude took at his face. "She's different from the other girls her age."

"Well, yeah," Claude said. Punch, punch, block. "How many teens you know can take a walk off a tall bridge for the hell of it?"

"That's not what I meant," Peter said reproachfully. "She sees things differently. She's more mature."

"And you don't think that has anything to do with her power," Claude said flatly. He took the opportunity to punch Peter in the face, because that's what they were here to do, at least in theory.

Peter shook off the blow, the red mark forming and fading on his cheek in the space of a breath, and looked thoughtful. "Some of it," he said. "Some of it's just because she's Claire."

Claude gave up on hand-to-hand and picked up the pole that was sitting next to him. "You're a nutcase," he said, testing the bend and give of the bamboo. Peter didn't have any problem with his telekinesis, but it was still a fun exercise, and Claude liked to hit things when he was frustrated. Whether the thing was Peter or a wall of Peter's power, he didn't much care. "You're asking her to give up any chance of ever moving on and getting over you, just because you're messed up in the head."

"No I'm not," Peter said.

"Yeah, you are." Claude shoved the end of the pole against the ground and leaned on it. "You're _you._ And you'll flit around like it's all a great lark, popping in and out of her life without any warning, and she'll look forward to you showing up and hate the thought of you leaving and you'll just do what you always do, no matter what she wants. And she promised you, because she's young and stupid, and she'll just take it and be miserable the rest of her life."

"It doesn't seem to make you miserable," Peter pointed out. He looked calm, like he wasn't bothered by what he was hearing, but Claude could see the sparks in his eyes. Peter was pissed. "And you've never had any trouble walking away when you've had enough."

"I'm not seventeen years old, you twat," Claude said. "I'm not related to you. You give me what I need just the same as I do for you. It's balanced. You're asking her to have a relationship without her gettin' anything out of it but a lot of heartache."

He didn't have anything against the girl, but he thought it was damn stupid what she'd done the day before. You should never make promises you can't keep- and you should never keep promises that break your fucking heart, and that's exactly what she'd done. She'd live out her life just exactly as he'd told Peter, and that wasn't right. That wasn't right at all.

What he didn't know was if she understood what she'd promised. He tended to think not. She was still just a kid, no matter what Peter seemed to think. Peter was an idiot when it came to Claire, and she didn't seem to have much common sense around him either. So it wasn't that he didn't like her- he just thought she'd done something she'd regret for the rest of her life, and there wasn't a damn thing any one of them could do to change it, because Peter was who he was and you could walk (or run) away from him, but you could never really leave. Claude had learned that the hard way.

"It's going to be fine," Peter said, but the look in his eyes said that he wasn't as confident as he sounded. "Trust me."

He did trust Peter. He just thought Peter was an idiot sometimes, no matter how powerful he was. If he couldn't avoid trouble, then Claude liked to go into it with his eyes wide open, and Peter, for all that he was basically a good person, would never be anything but trouble.

He didn't get a chance to say any of this, though. Through the whole conversation, Peter had been holding his "ready" stance, relaxed and waiting for anything that Claude could throw at him, but suddenly he jerked all over, like the beginning of a seizure, and his eyes went wide as dinner plates, going hazy and unfocused and twitching this way and that, following something that wasn't happening. Claude had seen Peter see the future, and it didn't look anything like this. His eyes went milky white when he was having a vision, whereas this was more like he was looking through someone else's eyes, seeing something that wasn't right in front of him.

After a moment, it faded, and he refocused again, looking at Claude. "It's started," he said, and headed for the house.

Claude stood for a moment, gobsmacked by the sheer, useless ambiguity of it. "What the hell does that mean?" he shouted, but Peter didn't slow down, so he had to run after him. Boy could really move when he was in a hurry.

Peter went straight to the kitchen, where Claire was sitting at the island, working on something out of a textbook. "What's up?" she said, and then seemed to catch the sense of urgency that soaked into the air. "Peter?"

"We've got to go to New York," he said. "I found Linderman's silent partner. And she's taken some of us."

"She?" Claire asked, completely confused. Claude was right there with her. That sounded as if Peter-

"I know her," he said grimly. "She's a clairvoyant, and she's got help. She'll know we're coming. She'll be ready for us."

Claire understood at the same moment Claude did. He wouldn't be this upset if the lady in question weren't family, and Peter had always wondered just how far in his mother really was. "I don't think she's going to be ready for this," she said, and jumped off of the stool, reaching out to wrap one hand around Peter's wrist with a white-knuckled grip. "Because I'm going with you."

"Claire-" Peter started.

She didn't give him a chance to finish his protest. "Don't argue," she said. "You'll need all the help you can get."

_Maybe she really did know what she was doing,_ Claude thought.

Peter could have ripped her away from him as easily as a thought, but he didn't. He looked down into her blue eyes and nodded.

She just grinned fiercely and reached out to grab Claude, completing the circle. "Are we ready to go or what?" she said, and Claude couldn't help but admire her in that moment, and he realized, with a sinking sensation, that he was going to like her after all.

 

NIKI SANDERS- NEW YORK CITY

 

It was a little closer to five minutes when Nathan landed in their backyard, skidding across the grass and stumbling to a halt by her back steps. _That's going to be a bitch to replant,_ she thought distantly, looking at the carnage of greenery he'd left in his wake. He could land properly, she'd seen him, but he was in too much of a hurry to bother now.

"I had to make sure Simon and Monty made it home," he said, panting as he leaned against the porch railing.

"Did they?" she asked. She hadn't even thought about that. Nathan usually had some extra security in place when he wasn't driving the kids himself, but then again, the school the four of them attended was supposed to have some hefty security measures as it was, since it where the children of billionaires and politicians attended. Just how had the kidnapper gotten in far enough to take Micah and Molly?

"No, they made it home safe," Nathan assured her. "But Heidi is missing."

"Your _wife?_" Of course she knew that Nathan was married, she'd even met the woman in question, but Nathan seemed pretty distant from her. "She's not one of us. Why would they take her?"

"As a hostage? I don't know." He shook his head. "She was gone last night, but we'd, well, we'd just had a fight, so I thought she'd gone off to my mother's to sulk. But she hasn't come home, and Harrison doesn't remember her leaving."

She'd met Nathan's butler, as well. If Harrison didn't remember her leaving, she hadn't left through the front door.

"So it's my kids and your wife," she said through numb lips. "I thought this was about their powers, like before, but it isn't, is it? They're taking hostages from us. They want something for us."

"Well I for one don't intend to give it to them," Nathan said grimly. "We're taking them back, now, today. I want this over with."

She sometimes forgot that underneath the oily politician and the sneaky lawyer, he was a man who was raised to privilege, power, and command. She was remembering it now.

"And how the hell do you propose to do that?" D.L. said, hearing voices and coming out to meet them. "It's not like we know where hey went."

"I know where Heidi is," he said. "They're probably being held in the same place."

From the angle of D.L.'s jaw, he didn't like being upstaged, or whatever the hell macho thing was going on in his brain right now. "And how do you know that, huh?"

Nathan looked about as sheepish as she'd ever seen him. "After everything that happened last time, I had tracking chips put in the both of us, and the kids, too," he said. "I thought something like this might happen again."

D.L. looked like he wanted to say a few choice things about that, but restrained himself. He wanted their kids back, she knew. If working with Nathan was the fastest way to do that, then he'd be able to put everything aside and do it. A pragmatist, that was D.L. She was the same way.

"Then where are they?" he rumbled.

"Warehouse downtown," Nathan said. "We can be there in half an hour if we leave now."

"Wait a minute," she said. "Let's not rush off unarmed, yeah?"

D.L. just smiled and flexed his fist, as if she'd forgotten the look on his face when he'd pulled out part of Mr. Linderman's brain through the back of his skull. "I'm always armed," he said. "And so are you."

Nathan just lifted his battered-looking suit jacket and showed the lethal-looking pistol holstered at his waist.

She didn't even want to _know_ what his life was like if he was carrying concealed. "Okay, fine," she said. "We gotta call Mohinder, though. He lives near there. He can help."

"Call him on the way," D.L. suggested, and tossed her the keys.

 

MOHINDER SURESH- NEW YORK CITY

 

He arrived at the warehouse at approximately the same time as the others, though he'd come on foot. "They're somewhere in there," Nathan said, nodding towards a cluster of three of the larger warehouses, huddled together. He tapped the screen of his little handheld grimly. "Can't get any more specific than that."

"That's plenty good enough," D.L. said. "If we split up, we can search pretty fast." He gave it a judicious look. "They're not that big."

Niki twisted off the lock of the first door. Instead of a huge storage space, it'd been partitioned off into what looked like dozens of rooms and criss-crossing hallways.

"Definitely split up," she said, busily breaking the locks on the other doors.

"Mohinder can't go on his own," Nathan said.

"I beg your pardon," Mohinder said, offended. "I'm hardly a child."

"You're also not like us," Nathan said patiently. "We've all got something that we can use to defend ourselves. Do you even have a gun?"

"No," Mohinder admitted. He was a doctor. He'd been raised believing that it was anathema to take another life. He liked to think that he could defend himself, but bitter past experience had proved him wrong. "All right, that's sensible," he finally said. "Who am I to follow?"

"D.L. would be best, I think," Nathan decided. "You can go through walls if there's trouble," he said to D.L.

"Yeah, fine with me," D.L. said with thinly disguised patience. "Can we just get the hell moving? My kids are in there."

"And my wife," Nathan said. "Alright. Niki, you want the one on the left?"

"On it," she said, starting off.

"We'll take the right," D.L. said.

"And I'll take the middle," Nathan finished. "Yell if you find them." He started off in his chosen direction.

D.L. grinned fiercely at Mohinder. "Here we go, Doc," he said, and disappeared through the wall on Mohinder's right. Mohinder hesitated a second, then set off down the hallway.

Here we go indeed.

 

NATHAN PETRELLI- NEW YORK CITY

 

It didn't take him all that long to find the kids. Some of the doors were locked- he'd have to get Niki or D.L. in here to check those, since unlike Peter, he'd never dipped into his criminal side and learned how to pick locks.

(He didn't know for sure, about Peter. But when they were younger, Peter had had a disturbing knack for getting into his _locked _room every time he was home from college, and he'd assumed that Peter had learned it from the rough crowd he'd hung around with. Despite the fact that he disapproved, Nathan had never told their father. He still didn't know why.)

Five minutes into the search and he happened onto a large storeroom, mostly empty except for a few shelves bolted onto one wall in the corner. He stuck his head in and almost passed on by, but at the last minute he turned around and went to investigate the shelves. There might be a trapdoor or something hidden in the shadows, he figured.

There was something a lot better than a trapdoor hidden in the shadows. Micah and Molly were tied to opposite sides of the shelf, their heads lolling slackly to the side. He immediately went to his knees next to them, shaking fingers checking for a pulse, but they were both alive, just unconscious. The tiny pairs of marks on their necks suggested a taser. When he got his hands on the bastards that did this…

Well, he'd hand them over to Niki. She'd make sure that the men who took her children were appropriately punished. The thought cheered him right up, and after yelling for one of the others- no answer- he started tugging at the knots that held them to the steel shelving.

A minute later, he was cursing the fact that he didn't carry a knife, because those knots were tied by someone who knew what they were doing, and Nathan couldn't get them loose. He was debating the choice of leaving the kids temporarily alone to see if he could find one of the others when Niki came running in, leaving the choice moot.

"I heard you yell- Oh, thank _God,_ you found them," she said, and crossed the room so fast she practically left skidmarks. She landed jarringly hard on her knees next to him, but she didn't seem to notice as she reached out and checked their pulses the same way he had a minute earlier. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," she chanted, and on the last repetition she leaned over and kissed him square on the mouth out of sheer relief.

He kissed her back. He couldn't help it. She'd gotten close and he'd gotten a half-familiar whiff of her soap-and-sweat smell, and then her soft lips were on his and he was lost in memory, remembering the feel of her toned, curvy body gyrating against him, pressed over him in the dark. He could resist anything but temptation.

There was a second of surprised stillness where he might have been able to get ahold of himself, pull back, and apologize- but then she kissed him, too, and all of a sudden the kiss was somewhere completely different from where it had started. Nathan wasn't ashamed to admit that Niki was the one who found the self-control to pull away. Both of them were breathing hard.

"This is bad," she said, and he couldn't help but agree. Sure, he'd thought about it, but it's a lot different when it's not in the privacy of your own head, when it's out there and it definitely happened and this time both of them remembered everything.

"How about we just get the kids out of here and find Heidi," he said, and she nodded. She snapped Molly's ropes one-handed and he scooped the little girl up into his arms, turning to leave as she did the same for her son.

He stopped as he saw Heidi standing in the doorway, a man with a jackal grin and a skinny teenage girl behind her, neither of whom he'd ever seen before, surrounding her. "Heidi," he said hesitantly. He wasn't exactly sure what was going on here- were these people others who'd been taken? "I'm so glad I found you. We're just about to find Mohinder and D.L. and get out of here."

"I'm sorry, Nathan," she said, and the hell of it was, she really did look sorry. "But I can't let you do that."

Behind him, he heard Niki's breath catch in her throat, and his heart sunk right down to the bottom of his chest.

Well, _fuck._


	5. Chapter 5

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[anatomy series](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/anatomy+series), [big boom](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/big+boom), [fic](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/fic), [heroes](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/heroes), [het](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/het), [peter/claire](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/peter/claire), [peter/claude](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/peter/claude), [slash](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/slash)  
  
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MOHINDER SURESH- NEW YORK CITY

 

Things went quicker than he could have expected, thanks to D.L.'s presence. Most of the doors were locked- which was only to be expected, as this did seem to be some sort of storage space- but locked doors were hardly an obstacle for a man who could walk through walls, and they went through the assorted hallways of the large building at a cracking pace.

Finally they got to the final room, near the back, and stopped. "Well, I guess they're not here," D.L. said, sounding for all the world as if this were a personal failing on the part of the kidnappers, not putting the children where he could find them. "We should go back to the front, meet up with the others. Maybe Niki found them." Mohinder couldn't help but notice that D.L. didn't include Nathan in that possibility.

"Maybe we should check out back," Mohinder suggested, tapping the wall with his fingers. "Nathan's receiver only said that they were in this area, correct? They aren't necessarily being kept _inside_ one of these buildings."

"And this is why you're the smart one," D.L. "Hangon a sec, lemme check it out." He put one hand on the wall and then flowed through, Mohinder watching with fascination. It never got old, seeing D.L.- or any of them, really- doing what they did. He liked to think that he'd helped them somewhat in the past few months, not just with blood tests and microscopes, but by suggesting training exercises and such that he'd found in the pile of his father's notes. But the truth was, by the time he'd come along they'd all known how to use their powers, and most of what he did was secondary at best.

D.L. came back through a moment later, shaking his head. "Nothing," he said. "It's a parking lot. I had a look around, but…" He shook his head. "Wanna head back?"

"I suppose we should-" Mohinder said, and then blinked in astonishment as a lean young man seemed to sprout from thin air next to D.L., who looked fairly surprised as well- especially when the stranger took advantage of his shock and promptly bashed him over the head with the bat he was holding in his left hand. Mohinder turned away to run, but not before he saw D.L. crumple to the ground.

It wasn't fast enough. The last thing he saw before he hit the ground was the shark-like grin on the young man's face.

 

MICAH SANDERS- NEW YORK CITY

 

"You were the one who took the kids. Why? Why would you do that, Heidi?"

Micah regained consciousness slowly, the sound of voices far-off in his ears. "Oh, Nathan. This is what I _do,_ Nathan. Did you really think that I spent all my free time being a politician's wife?"

The first thing he did, before he could even open his eyes, was to check around him for Molly. There- he could feel her small body curled against his back, relaxed in a way that she only ever was when she was truly asleep. Still knocked out, then, but alive. He could feel her radiating warmth that combated the chill of the cold floor they were lying on.

"I'm going to kill you," he heard his mom saying, his voice low and scary like it got when she was Jessica. He didn't think she was Jessica now, though. Just really, really pissed.

"You can try," the strange woman said. "I think, though, that you'll find you won't succeed."

"I was wondering why you kept spending so much time with Mom, when you never seemed to like her," Mr. Petrelli was saying. "You were working for her."

"No," the woman said. "I was working for Mr. Linderman- at least until his death last year, when I stepped into his place. Your mother was simply familiarizing me with some of his projects that I had lost track of."

Mr. Linderman. Micah went cold all over at that name. He remembered Mr. Linderman, remembered the last time he'd been taken, by a woman with his mother's face, and what she'd made him do. She hadn't hurt him, not really, but she could have, if he hadn't thrown the election. And she would have done it because she was loyal to Mr. Linderman.

Mr. Linderman was dangerous even after he was dead.

"Mom introduced us," Mr. Petrelli said. He sounded almost as mad as his Mom did. "I'd forgotten that. Was this whole thing planned from the start?"

"Yes, though I wasn't supposed to step into Mr. Linderman's shoes for another ten years or so," she said. "He wasn't supposed to die yet. I hear I have you to thank for that, bitch," she added, apparently to his Mom. "And I haven't forgotten."

That's it. He had to do something, or this woman was going to kill his Mom.

He reached out with everything he had and latched onto the building's security system, trying to use it to piggyback out to the internet. He needed to get to Hana, he needed her help, he wasn't even awake yet, couldn't even move, how could he possibly do anything on his own? _Please, Hana,_ he begged. _Please._

She didn't answer. She wasn't there at all. He was on his own.

_No you're not,_ someone- no, something whispered back, it was the security system. It was reaching into his head and seeing what was happening, and for a moment he was both himself and the system, seeing all the rooms in the building prismed against the backs of his eyelids, and then it focused and he could see what was going on.

He was lying in the middle of the room- it was really creepy looking at his body lying there like that- with Molly behind him. His Mom was standing over them, with Mr. Petrelli next to her, and just inside the doorway there was a pretty woman and a mean-looking man and a girl all standing together and looking threatening.

Micah focused on the woman. He recognized her, finally- it was Mr. Petrelli's wife, he'd seen her on TV- and he knew that she was the one who was doing this. She was the one who'd hurt Molly. She was the one who wanted to hurt his Mom.

_Them,_ he thought, and just as the mouth of his body on the floor curved into a smile, the doors slammed shut, locking everyone in.

_Thank you_, he thought, and the security system purred as he slid away.

He went back into the dark of his own body, but he could hear shouting and the the wet, pulpy sound of flesh hitting flesh, and he knew his Mom was fighting back. He'd done what he could, and she'd take care of the rest. Everything was going to be okay.

And then he passed out again.

 

MOHINDER SURESH- NEW YORK CITY

 

Mohinder regained consciousness with a screaming headache, and the realization that he was tied up in a dark room and as close to alone as he could be with a large man unconscious at his back. He spent a useless few minutes trying to pull at the ropes, but whoever had knocked him up and left him here had known what he or she was doing, and he wasn't going anywhere any time soon. He turned his attention to D.L., because if he could get D.L. to wake up, D.L. could phase through the ropes like they were nothing and then they could get out of here. He wasn't going to hold his breath waiting for Nathan or Niki to rescue him, not considering how fast the- whoever it was- had taken the two of them out.

There was an inherent danger in being tied up, he reflected. It meant one of two things: the person who did the tying was planning on coming back, in which case they probably didn't have the best intentions, or they weren't planning on coming back at all, in which case you were left to starve to death if you weren't able to free yourselves. Neither option was particularly palatable.

Oh, cheer up, he told himself. You'll die of thirst long before you die of starvation.

Such a ghoulish line of thinking wasn't doing him any good, but it was hard to turn his mind to positive things when the man behind him was his one chance for freedom and couldn't be woken.

"This wasn't how I planned my life to go, you know," he said conversationally. "I'm a _scientist._ I did my research and I taught my classes and that was it. I had an admittedly brilliant but crazy father, and even I thought his theories were ridiculous. That certainly goes to show how much my judgment can be trusted, doesn't it?"

There was no response, but of course Mohinder hadn't expected one. Sometimes one just needed to speak, whether or not someone was listening.

"But then, we all know that my judgment is less than stellar, don't we?" he continued. "Look at what I've managed to accomplish since I've come to New York. I practically sold my father's research to some very dangerous men for the change to stop Sylar. I almost got myself killed, more than once. I almost handed over my father's research to the killer in question, and I even thought he was a friend." He laughed, bitterly, and the laugh turned into a couch that made his head hurt even worse. "It can be said that the one useful thing I've done in my time in this country is to save Molly's life. At least that's worth it, right? I hope so."

The darkness around him pressed close, as if it were listening. Mohinder closed his eyes, letting what little he could see disappear. "At least I didn't love him," Mohinder said. "I liked him, and I trusted him, and I thought I'd found someone who could understand, but I didn't know him long enough to love him. That would have been so much worse in the long run, really."

He didn't think about Matt. He'd have to, eventually, but right now he couldn't face even the idea of him.

"It's a shame he turned out to be evil after all," Mohinder mused. "Zane, or Sylar, or Gabriel, or whoever he was, could have been one of the most important people on the planet, if he hadn't tried to destroy part of it. He's just like Peter, really." If Peter were still alive. "Only he's evil. It's a shame," he repeated, blankly. He felt like he was starting to lose his mind.

He didn't like the dark.

Suddenly, there was someone behind him. Mohinder didn't know how he knew; there had been no footsteps, no sound of someone approaching, but he'd felt the displacement of air or perhaps sensed the hovering feel of another human being in his space, and he reacted by opening his eyes and trying to pull away- but of course he couldn't, not with his wrists and ankles tied together and tethered to D.L.

He couldn't see who it was. The room was too dark, and the man- somehow Mohinder knew it was a man- was standing directly in his blind spot, just far enough behind him that no matter how he twisted, he wouldn't be able to catch a glimpse. There was a brush of air over his face, like a hand skimming a centimeter of his skin, and then it was gone. Mohinder strained to hear something, anything.

Without any warning, the ropes fell away. He whipped around, already reaching out-

But whoever it was, was already gone.

 

NATHAN PETRELLI- NEW YORK CITY

 

When the security system suddenly engaged and the steel door slammed shut between them and freedom, Nathan knew that this was the best chance they were going to get. The noise and suddenness of the door surprised the others, and he hissed "Niki, _now,_" but of course she was already moving, because she wasn't just beautiful and dangerous, she was smart, too.

She lunged forward and socked the stranger in the jaw, hard enough to break it except his face seemed to ripple, absorbing the blow, and he turned around with a sneer. Nathan reached down and grabbed both children, holding them awkwardly against his sides as best he could, and started to edge around the action. If the door opened again, he needed to be in a position to run.

Heidi spotted him, though, her beautiful face swiveling around like a predator's to fix her cool eyes on him. "Nathan," she chided, just as she did when he came home late or left his briefcase at the office, and he knew that he was sunk.

"Heidi," someone said behind him, sounding immeasurably sad, and Nathan almost sprained something turning around because that was Peter's voice.

There he was, his little brother, in the flesh, a jagged scar across his face and a smile just below it. _Peter_, he thought, and despite all the confusion and the general hopelessness of their situation, for one moment he couldn't feel anything but relief. _Peter was alive._

Behind him were Claire, who had one hand on Peter's shoulder and the other wrapped around midair, like she was holding onto someone that Nathan couldn't see. _Invisible,_ Nathan thought immediately, remembering Peter's disappearance in his office that day, and he knew that he'd finally met Peter's mentor.

"Hey," Peter said, just as if he'd gone around to the corner store to buy some milk. "Need some help?"

Nathan choked on a laugh. "You could say that," he said. In the center of the room, Niki was doing her best to beat Heidi's thug brainless, but he just absorbed every blow like his body was made of Play-Doh, and she was having a hard time of it. Nathan shifted to get a better grip on the unconscious children, and immediately there was someone standing next to him, a tall, scruffy-looking stranger that faded back into visibility as he scooped Micah out of Nathan's grip. "We gotta get them out of here," the man told Peter, who nodded.

"I've got it," Peter said, and he took a step forward. The teenage girl Heidi had kept next to her reacted by throwing up a large glowing bubble around herself and Nathan's wife- force shield, no wonder Heidi had kept her close. Peter ignored her and instead reached out a beckoning hand towards the heavy security door, which groaned, bulged, and then split open down the middle, sagging away on its hinges.

From outside the door, a blur shot through and resolved itself into another young man as he cannonballed into Peter, knocking him down. Peter reached out to knock him aside, but the boy was gone again before Peter had a chance, moving so fast that he seemed to disappear.

"Get out of here, I've got this," Peter called, and Claire reached out and grabbed Nathan's arm, tugging him sharply towards the door.

"You heard the man," she told him. "Go with Claude and get those kids out of here."

Nathan assumed that Claude was the invisible man who even now was waiting impatiently, Micah cradled in his arms like he weighed nothing. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to watch the door in case any more surprises come through," she said.

"No way," Claude snapped, before Nathan had a chance to do the same.

"They're out for blood," Nathan added, because he had no doubt that Heidi wasn't planning on letting any of them out of this warehouse alive. Claire didn't seem to care about the warning, though- just tossed off a reckless, gorgeous grin, _Nathan's_ grin, damn it, she was so much his daughter, and said-

"What are they gonna do, kill me? Get out of here?"

Nathan went. He held Molly's lax little body close in his arms and followed Claude's back out of the door, trying to ignore the sounds of fighting behind him. Peter could handle himself, Nathan thought. If Peter could survive a nuclear explosion, Peter could handle a teen speedster.

But he couldn't help but think about the way Claire's smile had disappeared when she turned back to the fight, and he thought- when this is all over, I'm going to be her father whether she's ready for me or not.

 

NIKI SANDERS- NEW YORK CITY

 

Once the kids were safely gone, Niki was finally able to bring all of her focus to the man in front of her. He was grinning at her as she tried to attack him and failed, since fighting him was like fighting a pillow, and the grin made her madder and madder. She was _going_ to take this man out. These people thought it was okay to take _her kids._ They deserved to _die._

Off in the corner of her eye, she saw Peter (Peter!) having his own problems with the other guy. Peter's opponent seemed to have some kind of super-speed, and Peter couldn't lay a hand on him.

"Stop trying to punch the guy and just knock him out!" a female voice called from the doorway, and Peter seemed to get what she was saying because a second later, the blur that was the boy in motion halted, and he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

That's right, Niki thought. Peter had telekinesis.

"David!" her opponent cried, going absolutely solid for a pivotal moment, and without letting herself think, Niki reached out and snapped his neck.

He fell dead on the floor, and she looked down at his body, trying to dredge up some kind of horror or regret, but she felt nothing but satisfaction. _This is the first person I've killed,_ she thought, but it was hardly Jessica's first, and she was Jessica too, now. Jessica thought that this was right.

Pretty much, so did Niki.

Opponent gone, she slowly turned around, bringing her focus to bear on the woman who was responsible for all this. Heidi Petrelli was still hidden away behind her little force shield, and she looked about as unworried as it was possible to be.

Niki planned to change that.

She collected herself, preparing to leap forward and beat the woman's brains in, but Peter's hand curled around her arm and she realized that she wasn't going to be able to break his grip. "I've got this," he said.

"She took my _kids,_" Niki growled.

"She's family," Peter said sadly, and with a spasm of horror Niki thought, _Nathan._ She didn't even want to think about what must be going through his head right now. His entire marriage (his very happy marriage, her brain supplied) was a lie, and his wife had just betrayed him in the worst way possible. But she somehow knew that despite all that, Nathan wouldn't want her dead.

For Nathan, she turned away and left Peter to deal with his brother's Judas.

"Heidi, Heidi, Heidi," Peter said sadly. "Why'd you do it, Heidi? Was Linderman's big dream really worth this?"

Next to Niki, a blonde teenager that Niki remembered was Claire said, "We came as soon as he figured it out. Sorry we were almost too late."

Peter was just in time, as far as she was concerned. "How'd he even know?"

"He says Heidi's a clairvoyant," she said. "He finally managed to use her own power to track her."

Behind the force shield, the woman in question just smiled and said, "Oh, yes. Nathan may have stopped you from exploding, but the world can still be fixed. It just needs the right hand to guide it."

"Nathan didn't stop me from exploding, Heidi," Peter told her. "He just kept me from destroying New York. He knew that there was no good reason to kill that many people, that there wasn't anyone who deserved to gain power from that kind of act. You're not the right person for power, Heidi. Neither is Nathan. You're just a self-deluded pawn in Linderman's twisted game."

"He _loved_ me," Heidi flared. "I owed him everything. He saved me."

"He paralyzed you, Heidi," Peter said. Claire sucked in a surprised breath. "He was the one that caused your accident. He put you in that wheelchair."

"I always knew," Heidi said, "that he was going to heal me." She had the beautiful smile of a politician's wife. Her eyes were absolutely insane. "He promised."

"You're a clairvoyant," Peter said. "You were keeping tabs on us the whole time."

She nodded. "Up until you died," she said. "I lost track of you then. How'd you disappear?"

Peter didn't answer her. "You shouldn't have done it," he said. "You had a chance to get out when Linderman died. You should have taken it."

She shook her head. "I couldn't."

"That's really too bad."

She seemed to read something in his voice, some new determination that hadn't been there before. "Do you hate me, Peter?" she asked, coming close to the inside edge of the bubble and looking into his eyes. "I was just doing what I had to do. I'm saving the world. You of all people should understand that."

"The world doesn't need saving," Peter said, and he wasn't smiling. He wasn't smiling at all. "And I could forgive you that. But you betrayed Nathan. And that I can't."

Heidi drew away from the edge, back towards the center of the bubble where it seemed safer. "I'm not going to go quietly," she warned.

"That's okay," Peter said. "I'm not a big fan of quiet, myself."

"Uh-oh," Claire whispered. "He's going to be nasty." And Niki, who didn't really know Peter at all, had to agree.

Peter reached out and laid his palm against the curved edge of the force field. It hissed and spat sparks of electricity, but Peter didn't move his hand, even when the smell of burning flesh filled the air. He closed his eyes for a long moment, while the girl's face went slack with terror, and when Peter's eyes snapped open, they were the exact same green as the wide, frightened ones on the inside of the circle.

"Got you," he said with satisfaction, and began to glow.

Niki had seen him glow before, and she had to force herself to keep still, because this was different. It was almost worse to watch Peter's own force shield slowly grow away from his body, pressing, pressing, pressing against the girls till the first one began to shrink.

In a matter of seconds, it barely covered both Heidi and the girl, and Heidi looked at Peter, looking frightened for the first time. "Please," she said.

Peter just smiled, and the girl's bubble collapsed with a soundless pop. The girl collapsed with it, and Peter let his own shield fade.

"I'm sorry," he told Heidi, and then he stepped forward, and held her struggling body close to his own, and disappeared.

Beside her, Claire looked very, very pale, her mouth drawn down tight at the corners. "Let's just find the others and get out of here," she said, and Niki couldn't agree more.

 

MOHINDER SURESH- NEW YORK CITY

 

It took hours before Mohinder was able to tear himself away and head for home. Molly, in particular, was clinging to him like a little monkey, refusing to let him out of her sight. Not that he blamed her, honestly. She'd had enough losses for one short life, and tonight had been far, far too close. If it hadn't been for Peter Petrelli's timely arrival and intervention, the outcome of their attempted rescue could have been very different.

Micah was the one who finally coaxed her away and into Niki's arms, leaving him free to make his hasty apologies and escape. He looked back over his shoulder as he left and saw her, Niki kneeling beside her, deceptively strong arms wrapped around her, D.L. with his hand on Niki's shoulder and Micah with his hand on Molly's. It was a moving and oddly revealing family portrait, and not for the first time Mohinder knew that there wasn't really much place for him there. Off to the side of the picture, perhaps, the honorary uncle, but never really part of the family unit.

Well. Molly was better off.

He hadn't brought his car, as the warehouse where the children had been taken was actually quite close to his run-down apartment building, but now he was wishing that he had, since he was quite dreading the silent walk home. He needed to in bed now, to let the kind oblivion of sleep steal away the morass of doubts and suspicions and fears that would not abate, but he had several blocks before he'd be home, and until then he was stuck with his thoughts.

After a moment, he realized that the sound behind him was footsteps, and he paused, his heart beating a little fast. Surely someone wasn't following him, surely it was just his imagination-

The footsteps stopped when his did. He swallowed hard, and slowly turned, half-wanting to give him pursuer a chance to hide. He did not want to have the confrontation that he suspected was coming, not here, not like this. Not ever if he could have his way, but definitely not now.

Whoever it was didn't hide. Instead a dark shape seemed to melt out of the shadows, resolving itself into a tall, dark-haired man.

"Sorry," Peter said. "Didn't meant to scare you, or anything."

"It's quite all right," Mohinder said, trying to get his heart back out of his throat. "I merely thought you were someone else."

"Yeah, I figured," Peter said, and Mohinder wondered what, exactly, he meant. "I just came to walk you home. Figured we can't be too safe just now."

"I'm fairly certain that you have vanquished the most pressing of our enemies," Mohinder said, but he stepped sideways, making room for Peter to walk beside him. Peter needed no other invitation and immediately joined him, striding beside him in easy silence for the short walk to his building.

Peter even walked him up to his door, despite his protestations that it was quite unnecessary. "Can't be too cautious."

"Shouldn't you be getting back?" Mohinder grumbled. He wanted to be left alone. "It's your brother's life at stake."

"Nah, he's safe enough," Peter said amiably. When Mohinder had left, a blonde teenager that he vaguely remembered as Claire and a tall, unkempt man he didn't recognize had been bickering fiercely, with an overwhelmed-looking Nathan stuck in the middle. Mohinder had assumed that Peter would step in and mediate, since it was his best guess that the two newcomers had arrived with Peter, and therefore he must have some degree of control over them. "He survived my high school years; he can handle Claire and Claude." Briefly Peter looked doubtful. "Probably."

"I'm sure he'd be glad to hear you say that," Mohinder said dryly. He stopped at his front door and held up the key. "And here we are, with me home safe and sound."

"I wasn't just walking you up for your protection," Peter said gravely, and Mohinder closed his eyes, wishing with all his might that he wasn't having this conversation just now. He didn't want to think about it. He _couldn't_ think about it. "You've already figured it out, but Sylar's here. In New York."

Mohinder opened his eyes. "Yes," he said. "I know."

"You do know he's not a threat, right?" Peter grabbed his upper arm when Mohinder would have stepped away. "I'm serious. I got clairvoyance from Heidi, and Sylar's power helps me master all my powers quicker. I've been using it to keep an eye on him for months. He's not the same person, Mohinder. You of all people should have figured out how he reacts to near-death experiences- complete and total personality shifts, right? He's not Sylar anymore, or Gabriel Gray. He's someone completely new."

Mohinder opened his mouth to object, then took a deep breath and closed it again. This was Peter. No one was as strong as Peter. His father never could have dreamed that someone like Peter existed- this powerful, and this honorable. He could trust Peter.

"Are you certain?" he said.

"I'm absolutely certain," Peter said. "He doesn't even remember being anyone else- or if he does, he doesn't seem to associate it with himself. I've been looking through his eyes for three months, Mohinder. And the only person that he's seeing? Is you."

"I- Thank you," he said. "I'll certainly take that under advisement."

Peter gave him a worried look from under his lashes. But, "Please do," was all he said, and then he gave Mohinder's shoulder a reassuring squeeze and vanished- not the blinking-out of a teleport, but the slide-to-nothing disappearance that meant he'd gone invisible. He was probably halfway down the stairs, by now. Mohinder felt foolish, standing in the hallway alone and staring at the spot where Peter had been, so he unlocked the door and went inside.

Matt was sitting in his living room, Mohinder's clock face-down on the table in front of him. The back had been taken off, and Matt was holding a tiny screwdriver in one hand.

Matt said, "I fixed it for you."

His mind absolutely blank, Mohinder replied, "I wasn't aware that it needed fixing."

"Just a few seconds off," Matt said, "But I could tell." He slotted the plastic backing into place and carefully screwed in the tiny fastenings, then got up and hung it back in its accustomed place on the wall. Mohinder watched him in absolute silence, unable to think of a single thing to say. He couldn't think at all.

Finished, Matt slid the screwdriver back into his pocket and turned around to face Mohinder. He smiled, a little shyly, sweet and earnest and Oh God, that was Zane's smile, right there on his best friend's face. That was _Zane's smile._

"Be seeing you, then," Matt said, and crossed the room to let himself out. He passed quite close to Mohinder, who didn't move, didn't even twitch, until he heard the door shut and click, as if it had been locked, but of course Matt was on the wrong side and didn't have a key-

He ran to the window and looked out, standing quite still, breath bated, until the front door creaked open, several floors below. Matt had taken the stairs, then, the elevator always took forever.

Sylar stepped out, an unmistakable dark shadow against the ill-lit street. He looked up, once, and then turned and walked away.

Mohinder forced himself to breathe.

 

MICAH SANDERS- NEW YORK CITY

 

For the first time that night, Micah was completely and totally comfortable.

He was sitting on the couch with Molly next to him, and both of them were tucked under a huge blanket that Dad's friend Dave had given to them for Christmas a couple months ago. Dave's wife had _made_ it, which was a totally alien concept to Micah, whose mom had never even had time for arts and crafts stuff, but it was warm as anything and didn't scratch like some blankets did. Plus, _Molly,_ and they weren't unconscious and kidnapped and stuff anymore. It was a pretty good end to the day.

He could hear his mom and dad arguing in the kitchen- not loud, he couldn't hear what they were saying, just the whispering that grown-ups did when they didn't want kids to hear, but he knew they were arguing. He wasn't really sure what they were arguing about, but for the first time he really didn't care. He had other things on his mind.

"I'm sorry I didn't stop the gun," he told Molly.

She knew what he meant. Tazers ran on electricity, unlike real guns, and if he'd known it was coming, he probably could have connected enough to stop that freak from shooting them. He should have known. He _should_ have been paying attention. He had to watch out for Molly, that's what his Mom and Dad said, not like they'd had to tell _him_ that. He always looked out for Molly, but this one time, when she'd really needed it, he hadn't.

"It's okay," she whispered back. "I didn't stop it, either."

He must have looked skeptical, because she got this bossy look on her face and said, "I could have known someone was coming for us, you know. If I'd looked. But I didn't." Her face softened, and she reached out to give him a hug. "You don't have anything to apologize for."

Best. Day. Ever.

His other hand was resting possessively on his laptop, because the first thing he'd done when he got home was make sure the tracking program was gone. (It was.) Hana hadn't shown up as being online either.

Then he heard, _Kid, you didn't need me,_ and he knew that Hana was there. She hadn't abandoned him. She'd been looking out for him the whole time, but she was right. He'd reached out and connected with the building security and made it close down. It was the biggest system he'd ever controlled, but he'd done it. He'd managed it all on his own.

"You don't either," he told Molly, and the smile she gave him was the best thing he'd ever seen.

 

NIKI SANDERS- NEW YORK CITY

 

"Our kids get taken and who comes to the rescue? Nathan Petrelli's younger brother." D.L. was not in a good mood. "All I was good for was getting a good knock on the head and snoozing away all the action."

Unconscious with a bleeding head wound was hardly "snoozing away," but it was pretty clear that he wasn't interested in listening to reason. Niki wasn't able to do any more than just stand in the kitchen and listen to him rant, paralyzed with guilt for kissing Nathan back there in the warehouse. _Kissing Nathan!_ She should have grown out of this kind of idiocy already, shouldn't she?

Not that Nathan would expect anything. He hadn't even pushed her even when she'd come up to his room and drank his wine and flirted with everything she had, and that was when Niki realized that there was a real person, a good one, under all those hard edges and politics that she knew he wore as easily as he did his expensive suits. He was ruthless, killer instincts and all that, but was also, oddly, a gentleman.

Until he found out she'd stabbed him in the back. He didn't take too well to that.

She hadn't just betrayed Nathan, today, but her husband. And herself. What was she _thinking?_ She was married. She'd married D.L. right out of high school, crazy in love with the bad boy with straight A's in class who looked at her like she was precious and didn't think that she was the class slut because she was poor and let her quarterback boyfriend talk her out of her clothes one night in the backseat of his car. She'd never once cheated on him, never even thought about it, not even when he was in jail the first time, and they'd raised a brilliant, wonderful little boy together. And then Jessica had come along and everything had gone to hell.

"Nik? Are you even listening to me?"

"Did I ever tell you that Jessica was the one who framed you?" she said, out of the blue.

"What? No." He stared at her for a long, long moment. "Why?"

"I was fine for a while," she said, not answering. "My whole life, I didn't remember. And I was fine like that. Maybe sometimes I wondered why everything had to be about my looks, why I always felt like I had to flirt to get my way, why I was always drinking, but- mostly, I was fine."

"So what happened?" he said. He didn't seem angry anymore. He looked worried.

"My Dad came back," she said. "I didn't remember what he'd done to me, what he'd done to Jessica. I _couldn't_ remember." She shivered. "God, I still can't, mostly. But he came back, and the memories were going to come back too, so my mind just- split. It's like the doctor told me," she said, not wanting to think about the doctor and what she'd done to her, her wide dead eyes staring back up from the floor. "There was something I couldn't deal with, so I made up Jessica, and she dealt with it for me."

"Baby," he said. She ducked away from his reaching hand, not quite ready for him to touch her yet.

"All the things that were complicated in my life, she took care of them for me," she said, talking very fast now. "We were barely talking any more, and I thought we were going to lose our marriage, so Jessica stepped in and made sure it happened fast, made sure that I would think it was your fault we weren't together anymore. When those thugs attacked me, Jessica killed them. When Linderman pulled strings, Jessica was the one who made sure we danced. When Linderman stepped over the line, Jessica was the one who knew we had to make him pay." She tried to appeal to him with her eyes. "Don't you understand? Jessica always thought she was taking care of me. But she loved Micah, D.L., he was her son too, and when it came down to her or Micah, she chose Micah." She turned away, blindly facing the wooden face of the cabinets. "She was psychotic, and she didn't care about anyone but me or Micah, but she wasn't evil," she said. "She was just doing what she had to do."

"And now she's gone," D.L. said behind her.

"And I don't have anyone to take care of me anymore." She turned back around, only distantly surprised to find him suddenly very close. "There's just me. And I love you. I married _you,_ damn it, and I take those vows seriously. And maybe you don't want them anymore, maybe you don't want a wife, but I-"

She was cut off by his mouth on hers. She let herself cling to him, losing herself in the kiss as best she could, letting him wipe away that lingering feel of Nathan's kiss. This was D.L., she thought. This was the man she'd fallen in love with. He was still right here.

"You don't need anyone to take care of you," he told her when he pulled away. "You do just fine on your own."

He believed it, she could see that much, and therefore so did she. They'd be fine. "I know," she said, and smiled.

 

NATHAN PETRELLI- NEW YORK CITY

 

"You left me with them," Nathan said. _You left me, period._

Peter just grinned at him, making himself comfortable on the couch. "You can handle it," he said. "You're a politician. That's what you do."

"They're like a pair of junkyard dogs, Pete. There is no handling those two. They hate each other. They hate _me._"

"They don't hate you," Peter said. His dark eyes seemed sharper, somehow, as they fixed on Nathan's hands pouring their drinks. "Claire's pissed because you saved me before she could, and because you almost let me blow up New York. I think tonight sort of redeemed you in her eyes. She'll get over it."

Nathan didn't want to think about it, didn't want to consider tonight in any way, shape, or form. He didn't even know where Peter had taken his wife, and he was pretty sure he didn't want to know. "Your invisible friend still hates me," Nathan pointed out.

Peter held out a beckoning hand, and the glass jumped neatly across the distance separating them, nary a drop spilling over the perfectly steady edge. "Claude hates everyone," Peter told him, but under the surface amusement he was peering at Nathan, waiting for his reaction. Nathan didn't give him one. He didn't care what Peter could do. "Don't take it personally."

"Well, he certainly seems fond of you," Nathan said. It came out a lot more bitter than he intended. Peter didn't miss it, but he just took a sip of his drink, his eyes glittering over the rim of his glass.

"Claire's not the only one who's angry," Peter said. "You think I should have come to you after I regenerated, don't you?"

"Well of _course_ I think so," Nathan exploded. "Jesus, Pete. I just about went out of my mind worrying. I wake up in my own bed two days after everything with no memory of what the hell happened or whether you're alive or _anything_ and I'm supposed to just go on with my life? What the hell did you expect from me?"

"I didn't take your memory, Nathan," Peter said earnestly. This was the Peter Nathan knew, the one who sat there and talked himself hoarse trying to get Nathan to understand. Not the cool-eyed stranger who'd strode into that warehouse and stopped his wi- stopped the enemy when the rest of them couldn't get close. "There's a man, used to work with Bennet, owes his loyalty to Mom- and Heidi, I guess. He takes memories. I didn't have anything to do with it." He set down the glass and got up, crossing the room to put one hand on Nathan's arm. "I thought you'd remember," he said. "I thought you'd know that I was okay. That I was doing what I had to do. I told you, after the explosion. I told you I'd be fine."

"I didn't know," Nathan repeated inanely. "I didn't remember."

"I know that now, and I'm sorry," Peter said. His hand slid up to Nathan's shoulder, squeezed. "I wouldn't have done that to you, Nate. You know I wouldn't. I thought we were okay."

"Alright," Nathan said. Peter's hand didn't move. "Alright, I get it. But you still could have come back before now, you know," he said. He knew he sounded plaintive- like Peter used to, when he wanted something Nathan didn't know how to give. "I'm not exactly hard to find."

Peter sighed, his hand dropping away at last. As soon as it was gone, Nathan missed the pressure and heat of his palm. "I couldn't," he said.

Nathan gaped at him in disbelief. "What do you mean, 'couldn't?' New York is not exactly long distance for someone who can teleport."

"Not that kind of couldn't," Peter said, fondly exasperated. Nathan couldn't shake the feeling that somewhere along the line, they'd switched roles and he hadn't quite been paying attention enough to notice. "You know how you and Mom always used to talk about how I needed to get out on my own and learn some independence? How I needed to grow up and stop dreaming?"

Nathan didn't say anything. Peter leaned in close and whispered in his ear.

"I'm not dreaming anymore."

Nathan recoiled away violently. "Jesus wept," he said. "You think this is what I wanted?"

"Maybe not," Peter said. "But it's what I needed, isn't it? Everyone always said so. Turns out they were right."

Nathan looked at him for a long, long time before he spoke. He was realizing that the little brother who'd looked up to him followed him and loved him even when he was better off on his own was gone forever. All of that beautiful idealism and unbelievable stubbornness had been burned off in the blast. It was enough to break his heart, if it hadn't been broken a few times already. Instead it just hurt, a dull ache in the place that only Peter had ever been able to call his own.

"Peter," he said. "How long were you gone?"

Peter's open face suddenly snapped closed and he grinned, bright and nervous, a boy with a lie hidden behind his teeth. "Well, it's been a couple months since the blast, right?"

Not an answer. _I taught him that,_ Nathan thought. "I think you were gone a little longer than that," he said steadily. "Where'd you go, Pete?" He paused for effect, then added, "Or should I say, _when_ did you go?"

Peter was up and across the room so fast that he practically gave Nathan whiplash. _Speedster,_ he thought automatically, and he knew that Peter had absorbed that boy's power back in the warehouse, just like his and Claire's and all the rest. "Claire was really great back there, wasn't she?" he said quickly. "She's grown up pretty fast."

There was something in his voice, some bit of uneasiness that didn't have anything to do with his extremely clumsy subject change, something that caught a little on Claire's name. Nathan decided not to push it. They had enough problems in this room.

"She's brave," Nathan said steadily. He couldn't follow what Peter was thinking. He didn't have a single, goddamned clue. All he could do was roll with the punches as best he knew how. "You've been staying with her?"

Peter relaxed fractionally when it seemed like Nathan was accepting the change of topic, and started drifting back across the room, touching things as he went. He looked like he was relearning foreign territory. "Me and Claude, yeah," he said. "Bennet was trying to topple the Company and I'd already been taking out some of the goons they sent after me, so we decided to join forces. She's really different, Nathan. She's not like the rest."

_The rest of what,_ Nathan wanted to ask, but that was another question he knew he wasn't going to get answered. "She's staying here for the next few days, till we can get her on a plane back to Texas," he said. "It's just as well it's a Friday, or she'd be in a lot of trouble with school."

Peter shrugged. "If it came down to that, I could take her back," he said. "Not like it's out of my way."

"I think we can afford the plane ticket," Nathan said dryly. "Hey, I've been wondering," he said, as if the idea hadn't just occurred to him, "why didn't Molly find you? I've been asking her to look ever since you disappeared, but she could never find you."

"The thing about being a Finder is that it's a form of telepathy," Peter said. "It works by reaching out and picking up the mental signature of a particular individual. You can't just tell her to find an Empath, because that's a trait, not a person. Tell her to look for Peter Petrelli the Empath and she'll have a lot more luck. People like us are even easier for her than everyone else, because our brain waves are so distinct.

"But the problem there is that any good telepath can block off signals as well as receive them, and that's what I did. As far as Molly was concerned, I didn't exist."

"I still believed you were alive," Nathan said. The past tense was deliberate. Peter didn't seem to hear it- or if he did, he didn't understand.

"I came back eventually," he said. "And I always will." He set down his drink and reached out, one hand cupping Nathan's shoulder tightly. "I'm sorry about your wife, Nathan," he said, and then his hand dropped away, and he turned and left the room.

"It's okay," Nathan said into the empty room. "I got you back. That's almost like an even trade."

 

PETER PETRELLI- NEW YORK CITY

 

When Peter left Nathan's study, he made a beeline for the spare room where Nathan had stashed Claire and Claude. Nathan hadn't told him which suite they were in, but he knew. His fingers itched for a map, but the knowledge was there even without a visual outlet. He went upstairs and headed left.

He made himself invisible as he went, out of sheer force of habit more than any desire to sneak up on the two of them. Claude could always see him when he was invisible, anyway, and he suspected that Claire knew when he was in the room whether she could see him or not, so it wasn't like he'd actually succeed on any major spying expedition, but still. He'd spent a lot of time in the Bennet household invisible, and after a while he just got used to it. For the first time, he was really starting to understand how Claude felt.

He paused in the open doorway and just watched them for a minute. They were in Claire's room, on the couch in front of the TV, bickering.

"Give me the damned remote."

"Not a chance. Stop your whining; it's not like there's anything good on anyway."

"I dunno how you can bloody _tell._ You're flipping channels so fast, you're like to give me a seizure."

"Baby."

Listening to them, anyone would think that they hated each other's guts, but their body language was saying something different. They were right next to each other in the middle of the couch, instead of spread to the separate ends, and she was leaning against him with her head drooping towards his shoulder out of exhaustion, and no matter how caustic he sounded, Claude was looking down at her like she was something precious. He'd finally realized just how special she really was, and Peter couldn't help but grin in satisfaction. In all the time they'd stayed with the Bennet's, Claude had managed to avoid Claire pretty completely, also, incidentally, avoiding any chance to getting to know her. Peter bet that Claude was realizing what he'd missed. That was a good thing. It meant that Claude was finally starting to understand.

So yeah, they argued, but it was the same way that Peter and Nathan always argued, where it was just another line of communication. Or that's how it used to be, anyway. He wasn't so sure about them anymore, not after that conversation downstairs. He hadn't listened in, that would be rude, but Nathan had never had much of a poker face for his brother, and Peter knew that there were all sorts of thoughts teeming around in that twisty brain of his, and he knew that not all of them were happy.

He was sorry for that, a little. But Nathan had finally gotten just exactly what he'd always asked of Peter. He didn't understand what Nathan was so upset about.

"God, no, not this swill! It's not even music!"

"It is so music. You're just old."

"You impertinent little brat."

Everyone he loved was in this house. His Dad had never counted among that number, which was an old hurt he'd never understand, and his Mom had betrayed him, and Simone was dead. Only Nathan was left, and Claire and Claude and Simon and Monty (who'd missed him, apparently, you'd think the Beatles had come back they way they'd mobbed him). This was what was left of his family, and he was pretty happy about that.

Claire's going to be graduating high school soon, he thought. He wondered about the odds of her going to college in New York, and thought that they were pretty good. Until then, well, he could always teleport. And wherever he went, he knew with absolute certainty that Claude would follow, and vice versa. And Claire was here, finding her way again with Nathan, and Claude was in there with Claire, making friends, and oh, it was all coming together, finally. He had a family again. The best of the old, the best of the new, and Peter knew that this was what happiness was.

"Kids, don't make me turn this car around," he said, going back to visible, and they both turned around, murder on their faces.

"Where the hell have you been?" Claude demanded, and "You dumped us on _him,_" Claire said, and he just threw his head back and laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

"He's finally snapped," Claire said to Claude.

"Finally? That boy lost it a long damn time ago."

He knew exactly how this was all going to end, and it was going to be a happily ever after for everyone. Just watch.


	6. Chapter 6

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[anatomy series](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/anatomy+series), [big boom](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/big+boom), [fic](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/fic), [heroes](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/heroes), [het](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/het), [peter/claire](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/peter/claire), [peter/claude](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/peter/claude), [slash](http://goddessleila.livejournal.com/tag/slash)  
  
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MOHINDER SURESH- NEW YORK CITY

 

Mohinder was on his way to the Sanders household for a "thank God we all made it through alive" dinner when he heard footsteps behind him.

He'd taken a taxi for most of the way, and if the tip he'd left had wiped out the last of the cash in his wallet at least it had put a smile on the driver's face, but he'd chosen to walk the rest of the way in an attempt to clear his head. Niki and D.L.'s neighborhood was admittedly much nicer than his own, and he wasn't overly concerned about muggers. It wasn't as if he had anything left in his pockets to steal.

He did, however, know of one person who'd have good reason to be following him. Despite the fact that it was the last person in the world he wanted to talk to, he turned around. Because this had to be done sooner or later, and it might as well be now.

There was Matt, following a few paces behind, keeping mostly to the shadows. He wasn't wearing his uniform, which was at least one lie that he'd shed. It was an improvement.

Mohinder swallowed his anger and went back to talk to his worst enemy.

"Hey," Matt offered, and Mohinder almost choked on his rage.

"You're not him," he said. "Drop that appearance right now."

Matt shrugged affably and then shifted, like an image on a computer screen. In his place stood a skinny, freckled, red-haired young man with dreamy blue eyes and Matt's same jeans-and-t-shirt combination. The t-shirt even said NYPD across the front, but Mohinder decided not to say anything. It was good enough.

"Is this better?" Sylar asked.

"It's still a lie," Mohinder said.

Sylar shook his head. "This is who I am now," he said. "I'm not him anymore."

_Not Sylar,_ Mohinder translated. "How does that work?" he snapped. "You just forget everything and think it all goes away? Life doesn't work like that."

Sylar looked, abruptly, much older than the twenty-some years his young face proclaimed him. "I have perfect memory," he said sadly. "I remember everything he did. I have these dreams… But it's not me," he said with renewed strength. "It's not. I'm not Sylar anymore than I am still Gabriel Gray."

"_You are still Gabriel Gray,_" Mohinder said. "Your genes mark you as surely as any brand. You are still the man who fixed watches for a living, and you are still the man who killed dozens of people because you thought you deserved what they had. It doesn't go away just because you want it to." He looked away, not able to stand the sight of the earnest blue eyes looking back at him. "What happened to Matt?" he said. "Did you finish him off? Did you take his brain like you did all the rest?"

"Officer Parkman was gone before he even reached the hospital," Sylar said. "I didn't touch his brain. I didn't take his ability." He smiled, tentatively. "I can't read your mind, Mohinder."

"But you can change your appearance," Mohinder said. "Niki told me about the girl who took her son. Did you kill her too?"

"She was dead already," Sylar said. "Someone had hit her hard enough to shatter her skull. I simply took her ability and hid her body." He frowned, his fiery eyebrows contracting in thought. "She was much heavier than she looked."

_Niki,_ Mohinder thought. _Niki killed her._ It wasn't as much of a surprise as it should have been. She'd killed that boy, back in the warehouse. He remembered that Peter had come back to take care of the body, but he didn't know what had been done with it. She was like a mother lion with her children, and she literally had the strength to back up her threats.

If he told Niki that Sylar was still alive, Niki would kill him for real without a moment's hesitation.

The idea hung in his brain for one shining moment, and then everything in him rebelled against the idea. Sylar was _his._ His to kill. His to destroy.

Or his to save.

"Are you always going to be following me like this?"

"I'll stop if you want me to," Sylar said honestly. "But I won't stop watching out for you."

Sylar had been the one to save him back in that warehouse. Had Sylar been listening the entire time?

He wanted to be embarrassed, but instead all he could feel was a sort of resignation. Of course Sylar was listening. This was what he did, who he was- he knew the way things worked, and he pulled the one thread to unravel the whole tapestry.

"You wanted me to be something different," Sylar said. "So I am."

He remembered saying that in another life, Sylar could have been the most important person in the world. Well, his wish was granted. Here was Sylar, living a whole second (or third) life. It'd be funny if it weren't so terrifying. Sylar had all but said that he was placing his fate entirely into Mohinder's hands. It was exactly what he'd wanted, only now he wasn't sure what to do with what he had.

"Well, it's easier to keep an eye on me if you stick close, isn't it?" he said finally. It wasn't a promise, it wasn't anything really, but Sylar smiled at him, and it was Zane's smile, sweet and true, and Mohinder thought, _I think he's actually been telling the truth about himself._

He turned away, ready to have done with this and lose himself in his friends, and then behind him, Sylar called out in his light-tenored new voice-

"By the way, the name is Michael now." Mohinder turned around, and Sylar smiled, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans. "Michael Dupont. It's nice to meet you."

It was startlingly easy to think of this new-old man as Michael- not Zane, who was never real to begin with, or Sylar, the man who killed his father, or even Matt, who was just as false as Zane had ever been, but Michael. Michael was someone new. Michael was the man who'd been his friend these past few months. Michael was the one who looked out for him, a guardian angel. Michael, he could deal with.

With Michael, he could start over.

"Hello, Michael," he said, and wondered why he was smiling. It felt almost foreign on his face. "It's nice to meet you."

Then he turned around and walked away, listening to the steady beat of footsteps as Michael followed him, falling into stride easily at Mohinder's side as easily as if he'd always been there.

 

CLAIRE BENNET- NEW YORK CITY

 

A cookout in the middle of February, Claire thought. This must be what going crazy feels like.

In their (collective) defense, however, it wasn't quite as miserable as it sounded. Niki and D.L. had a pretty good-sized porch (a pretty good-sized house, actually, Claire suspected Nathan's "helping hand" in this one, too) and they'd dragged out a couple of space heaters. Peter was keeping all the warmth from leaking to the great outdoors with the use of his newly acquired force-field powers.

They probably would have been more comfortable at the Petrelli mansion, and Nathan had certainly offered, before Peter had gotten a chance to nudge him about it, even. But Niki had insisted and D.L. had been quick to back her up, so here they were, the whole ridiculous lot of them.

Niki and D.L. were just outside the barrier, taking care of the actual cooking out portion of the cookout. She could hear them bickering even from her spot in the doorway, apparently over how to properly light the grill. D.L. was of the "pour lots of lighter fluid on it" camp, while Niki thought that was pointless pyromaniac overkill.

"If it doesn't burn hot enough when I light it, it won't stay lit!"

"Oh, please. You just like watching it burn as high as your head."

"You want to do this?"

"Oh no, feel free. But if you burn your eyebrows off, I'm just going to laugh. And laugh. And laugh."

Despite the apparent annoyance, both of the squabblers were grinning at each other. Claire rolled her eyes. Get a room already, guys, she thought, but her inner romantic, despite several month's worth of efforts at squashing it, were cheering for them. Her mom and Dad sounded exactly the same when there was some dinner-related disagreement.

Mohinder came out onto the porch, his new "friend" Michael in tow. "We were just about to start the salad," he said. "About how long on the main course, do you think?"

They all watched with bated breath as D.L. lit the grill… and as it promptly died out a second later, killed by a stray gust of wind before it had a chance to really catch.

"This may take a minute," Niki said dryly. Mohinder chuckled.

"I suppose salad can wait a few minutes then," but he went back into the kitchen anyway, the still-silent Michael close on his heels. If they weren't making the salad, then why the pressing need to be alone in the kitchen? Claire rolled her eyes again. If Mohinder thought he was being subtle, he was a little off the mark. He looked at the telekinetic like an unexpected gift, awed and suspicious. It was more like a schoolboy just realizing that he has a crush than a scientist with a brand-new subject.

Out in the yard, uncaring of the little drama centered around the grill, the kids were running around like little maniacs, bundled up so tight she had to rely on the color of their coats to figure out who was who. They seemed to be playing some sort of tag, but it was hard to know for sure since they didn't seem to be playing with any kind of actual rules. As far as she could tell, tag had turned into Micah and Simon teaming up with Molly to chase Nathan's eldest around the yard.

"Slow down, for God's sake," Nathan yelled, sounding exasperated, "are you trying to give me gray hairs?" Molly- at least Claire thought it was Molly, none of the boys had hair long enough to braid- giggled, and dove right back into the fray. Nathan sighed and leaned back into his chair, exchanging a "what can you do?" look with Peter, sitting next to him.

Nathan and Peter had swiped lawn chairs and dragged them onto the porch, where they sat clustered around the largest space heater, looking pretty pleased with themselves. (Weirdly so, since for the first time since she'd known them, they actually looked like brothers. Normally the only physical resemblance was their coloring, but the identical smug grins on their faces was proof positive that these two had grown up together.) Claude was hanging over the back of Peter's chair, sneering down at Nathan. "You wouldn't think native New Yorkers like yourselves would be so thin-blooded," he'd needled, but he'd been quick enough to huddle up against Peter's chair, and she suspected that the quake in his shoulders wasn't suppressed laughter. Peter had just grinned indulgently up at him and pulled off his scarf, passing it back without bothering to look if Claude was reaching out to take it- which, of course, he had been.

"I hate to break it to you, Petrelli, but you've already got gray hairs," Claude pointed out. "It's what happens when you start getting up into your forties, old man."

"Is that so?" Nathan said politely. "Then you must be spending a great deal on hair dye, since you're no spring chicken yourself."

Claude's lip curled. "Unlike some people, I've aged gracefully."

"'S just because you're clean-shaven," Peter pointed out amiably. "You looked like a homeless person till I made you shave."

"_Made_ me-!"

Peter laughed softly. "Persuaded?" he suggested.

"Coerced?" Nathan put in. Claude snarled at them both.

Claire was abruptly hit with a wave of homesickness so thick she could barely breathe. She missed her family. She missed her Dad, and Zach, and her silly Mom and Jake and even _Lyle,_ for God's sake. She wanted to go home. She'd called her Dad, first thing after getting back to the Petrelli mansion, and he'd told her to stay a week- probably part of his ongoing plot to help get Nathan into her favor, and how weird was that?- but she wasn't sure she wanted to. Maybe after she finished her senior year she _might_ be able to tackle the thought of living in New York, but until then she wants to go home. Everyone else- well, they have each other, their own families. She wanted hers.

After checking to make sure that no one was paying attention, she slipped inside and pulled out her cell phone. She wasn't going to interrupt Peter's evening to take her home, even if it _would_ only take like ten seconds for him, but she had to talk to her Dad, like, right this second.

He answered on the second ring. "Hi, honey," he said.

"Hey, Dad," she said, and sat down on the couch, her legs abruptly watery with relief. For half a second there, she'd been worried that he wasn't going to answer. It sounded silly, but-

"You're lucky you caught me. We were just about to sit down to dinner."

-her Mom made everyone turn their cell phones off during meals, and she hadn't thought to call the land line at home, because she'd just wanted to talk to her Dad. Not that she _didn't_ want to talk to anyone else, but- Well, it was her Dad, and he'd been through things with her that even Zach didn't quite understand. She'd always been her father's daughter, but it wasn't until now that she was understanding exactly what that meant:

"Sorry to hold up the meal."

"Don't worry about it. There's a reason I bought your mom those fancy plate-warmers."

It meant that family came first. Always. And the only person who could tell you who your family was, was you.

Maybe Nathan was starting to understand that too, or maybe he had his own rules about family. She remembered how loyal Peter had seemed to Nathan, senselessly loyal, she remembered thinking. Peter had betrayed her by trusting Nathan past the point of reason, but in the end he hadn't betrayed her at all, not really. He'd been right. Nathan had come through in the end, had saved the day when she hadn't been able to pull the trigger.

She must have been silent for too long, because her Dad said, "What is it, Claire?"

"Just talk to me, Daddy," she said, and even to her own ears she could hear how desperate she felt. "Just talk to me."

"Okay," he said easily, and started talking about his latest efforts in home repair- the old shed on the backside of the garden, which was practically falling down, to hear him tell it. She choked on a laugh and sat back to listen.

She didn't fool herself to think that Nathan's decision had anything to do with her. Another girl might, might have thought that he was trying to spare her the pain of shooting to kill, that he was trying to step in and play the knight gallant.

No, Nathan had known her better than that. He was astonishingly blind when it came to those close to him, but he could read strangers like a book- he had to, he was a politician. He'd known that she would hate him for stepping in. He'd also known that she couldn't pull the trigger. So he'd done what he had to, not because of her, but because of Peter. Because Peter might have survived the explosion, but he wouldn't have survived knowing that he'd caused all those deaths. He'd done it for his brother, as plain and simple as that.

She might not have forgiven him otherwise, and she hadn't, not for a long time. But she'd seen them out there- the easy bump of their shoulders as Peter leaned in to tease Nathan, the way Nathan would sneer at him, a hidden smile lurking around the edges of his mouth. She'd been holding onto her anger for a long time- because he'd betrayed her, betrayed New York, because he'd saved Peter when she couldn't, because Peter had disappeared and she'd blamed him. But he'd done the right thing in the end, and he'd done it for the right reasons.

You can pick your friends, she thought, and you can pick your nose, and if you were a Bennet girl like her, you could sure as hell pick your family. She'd thought that the only Petrelli included in that was Peter, but there was room for more in her family. There was room for Nathan- not as her Dad, maybe, but as her father. And he'd introduced her to his kids, who'd been thrilled to pieces at the thought of having an aunt.

So she could have three parents, and an uncle and some nephews and a couple damn good friends and whatever the hell Claude was going to turn out to be. So what if it wasn't exactly normal? She was a freak, for crying out loud. She didn't have to play by the conventional rules. Not anymore.

"-so I go out there, tools in hand, and you'll never believe what I find when I open the damn door."

She blinked, coming back to herself. "What's that?" she asked absently. He was still talking about the shed, right?

"Zack and Jake were in there, and I'll be damned if they weren't halfway to something an old man like me shouldn't be seeing."

She cleared her throat. "So let me get this straight. Basically, you caught them making out in the shed?"

"You got that right. Should have seen the looks on their faces when they saw me standing in the doorway."

The tickle in her throat became uncontrollable, and when she opened her mouth she realized it was laughter. Her Dad waited it out, till her giggles had subsided, and then said, "Feel any better?"

"Yeah," she said, still grinning. "Yeah, I feel a lot better. Thanks, Daddy."

"Anytime," he said, and she could hear him smiling too. "I'll talk to you later, okay honey?"

"Tomorrow," she promised. "You go eat dinner now, before mom takes the phone away from you."

"I will. Love you, Claire-bear."

"Love you too, Daddy."

She tucked the phone back into her pocket and went back out onto the porch. Peter tipped his head backwards over the edge of the chair and peered around Claude's shoulder. "Dinner's almost ready," he told her.

"Good," she said, and realized that it was. "I'm starving."

She smiled at Peter, because she was there and she was happy, and he smiled back. "Monty, Simon, get your butts back up here and dry off!" Nathan bellowed, and then shot a rueful glance towards Claire. "Going to catch their death of colds," he grumbled, but he was smiling too. She knew it.

She fingered the key around her neck, the one that Nathan had given her. It fit the front door to the mansion. He'd taken her straight to the kids' room, to meet his sons, and when they'd finished climbing all over her and gone to bed, he'd taken her into his office and he'd handed it to her. "Welcome to the family," he'd said, and for the first time she'd honestly believed that he meant it.

"You coddle them too much," Claude told him.

"Just because _my_ kids didn't grow up on the streets-"

It was enough, she thought. She was content.

 

HIRO NAKAMURA- TOKYO, JAPAN (PRESENT DAY)

 

Hiro Nakamura blinked back into the present day in the middle of his father's busy Tokyo office. He got a lot of strange looks, but that was to be expected, as he was wearing armor, with Kinsei's sword slung comfortably across his bad, his long tight braid wound around out of the way of the scabbard. When he twisted around, his seeking gaze scanning the crowded faces for one in particular, the scar that Peter had healed pulled uncomfortably taut on his chest.

He saw an endless sea of people in suits, a whole row of curious, or frightened, or bored faces turning towards him, but he ignored them all and looked for the one person who looked at him with something else- recognition, and the beginnings of joy.

Hiro looked past all of them, and saw Ando.

And smiled.

~*~

_Change is inevitable. The circumstances that make up life on this Earth are not static. Every person encounters something every day that changes their opinions, their mood, and sometimes even their outlook on life. Every person you meet, every relationship you form, changes you. Sometimes for the worse, and sometimes for the better._

_ The challenge in life is to find the people who change you for the better, and to keep them by your side. It is to find the people who would change you for the worse, and help them to change for the better. Evolution does not occur on an individual level. For the human race to move to the next level, requires one to extend a helping hand to guide others upwards to the next rung._

_ Families are important. Friendships are important. Our children are absolutely vital. We can change the shape of the world just by the people we love, the people with whom we choose to share our lives. Change is inevitable, and change is necessary. Change, if handled with care, can be beautiful._

_ The choice is ours._

 

End.


End file.
